LIBRARY 

UNIVERSITY  OF 
CALIFORNIA 

SAN  DIEGO       I 


presented  to  the 
UNIVERSITY  LIBRARY 
UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 
SAN  DIEGO 

by 

Mr,    and  Mrs. 

William  E0    Jorgensen 


ROBERT  BROWNING. 


POEMS     OF 

ROBERT    BROWNING 


SELECTED  BY  THE  AUTHOR 


NEW  YORK 
A.     L.     BURT,      PUBLISHER 


DEDICATED  TO 

ALFRED  TENNYSON. 

IN  POETRY-ILLUSTRIOUS  AND  CONSUMMATE; 
IN  FRIENDSHIP-NOBLE  AND  SINCERE. 


IN  the  present  selection  from  my  poetry,  there  is  an 
attempt  to  escape  from  the  embarrassment  of  appearing 
to  pronounce  upon  what  myself  may  consider  the  best  of 
it.  I  adopt  another  principle;  and  by  simply  stringing 
together  certain  pieces  on  the  thread  of  an  imaginary 
personality,  I  present  them  in  succession,  rather  as  the 
natural  development  of  a  particular  experience  than  be- 
cause I  account  them  the  most  noteworthy  portion  of  my 
work.  Such  an  attempt  was  made  in  the  volume  of  selec- 
tions from  the  poetry  of  Elizabeth  Barrett-Browning:  to 
which — in  outward  uniformity,  at  least — my  own  would 
venture  to  become  a  companion. 

A  few  years  ago,  had  such  an  opportunity  presented 
itself,  I  might  have  been  tempted  to  say  a  word  in  reply 
to  the  objections  my  poetry  was  used  to  encounter.  Time 
has  kindly  co-operated  with  my  disinclination  to  write  the 
poetry  and  the  criticism  besides.  The  readers  I  am  at 
last  privileged  to  expect,  meet  me  fully  half-way;  and  if, 
from  the  fitting  stand-point,  they  must  still  "censure  me 
in  their  wisdom,"  they  have  previously  "awakened  their 
senses  that  they  may  the  better  judge."  Nor  do  I  appre- 
hend any  more  charges  of  being  wilfully  obscure,  uncon- 
scientiously  careless,  or  perversely  harsh.  Having  hitherto 
done  my  utmost  in  the  art  to  which  my  life  is  a  devotion, 
I  cannot  engage  to  increase  the  effort;  but  I  conceive  that 
there  may  be  helpful  light,  as  well  as  reassuring  warmth, 
in  the  attention  and  sympathy  I  gratefully  acknowledge. 

R.  B. 

LONDOK,  May  14,  1872 


CONTENTS. 


PAQK 

Vfy  Star 1 

,1  Face 1 

My  Last  Duchess 2 

Song  from  "  Pippa  Passes" 4 

Crist  ina - .       5 

Count  Qismond 7 

Eurydice  to  Orpheus 12 

TheGlove  12 

Song 18 

A  Serenade  at  the  Villa 19 

Youth  and  Art 21 

The  Flight  of  the  Duchess 24 

Song  from  "  Pippa  Passes" 51 

"  How  they  Brought  the  Good  News  from  Ghent  to  Aix." 52 

Song  from  "  Paracelsus" 54 

Through  the  Metidja  to  Abd-el-Kader. 55 

Incident  of  the  French  Camp 56 

The  Lost  Leader 58 

In  a  Gondola 59 

A  Lovers'  Quarrel 67 

Earth's  Immortalities 72 

The  Last  Ride  Together 73 

Mesmerism 77 

By  the  Fireside 82 

Any  Wife  to  Any  Hushand 93 

In  a  Year 98 

Song  from    "  James  Lee" 101 

A  Woman's  Last  Word 101 

Meeting  at  Night 103 

Parting  at  Morning 104 

Women  and  Roses. . .  .  104 


MM 

Misconceptions 106 

APretty  Woman 106 

A  Light  Woman 110 

Love  in  a  Life 112 

Life  in  a  Love *  113 

The  Laboratory 114 

Gold  Hair. 116 

The  Statue  and  the  Bust 122 

Love  Among  the  Ruins 131 

Time's  Revenges 134 

Waring 136 

Home  Thoughts,  from  Abroad 144 

The  Italian  in  England 144 

The  Englishman  in  Italy 149 

Up  at  a  Villa— Down  in  the  City 157 

Pictor  Ignotus 161 

Fra  Lippo  Lippi 163 

Andrea  Del  Sarto -. 175 

The  Bishop  Orders  his  Tomb  at  Saint  Praxed's  Church 183 

A  Toccata  of  Galuppi's 186 

How  it  Strikes  a  Contemporary 190 

Protus 193 

Master  Hugues  of  Saxe-Gotha 195 

Abt  Vogler 201 

Two  in  the  Campagna.. 206 

"De  Gustibus— " 209 

The  Guardian-Angel 210 

Evelyn  Hope 212 

Memorabilia 215 

Apparent  Failure 215 

Prospice 218 

"Childe  Roland  to  the  Dark  Tower  Came" 219 

A  Grammarian's  Funeral. , 226 

Cleon 231 

Instans  Tyrannus 241 

An  Epistle 244 

Caliban  upon  Setebos 253 

Saul ...  262 

Rabbi  Ben  Ezra 281 

Epilogue 288 


CONTENTS.  lx 

PAGE 

A  Wall 292 

Apparitions 293 

Natural  Magic 294 

A  Tale 295 

Confessions 299 

Magieal  Xature 301 

Garden  Fancies 301 

In  Three  Days 306 

The  Lost  Mistress 307 

One  Way  of  Love 308 

Rudel  to  the  Lady  of  Tripoli 309 

Numpholeptos 310 

Appearances 315 

The  Worst  of  It 315 

Too  Late 320 

Bifurcation 324 

A  Likeness 326 

May  and  Death 828 

A  Forgiveness , 329 

Cenciaja 341 

Porphyria's  I/over 350 

Filippo  Baldinucci  on  the  Privilege  of  Burial 353 

Soliloquy  of  the  Spanish  Cloister 370 

The  Heretic's  Tragedy 372 

Amphibian 376 

St.  Martin's  Summer 379 

James  Lee's  Wife. . .  .383 


SELECTIONS  FROM  ROBERT  BROWNING. 


MY  STAR. 
ALL  that  I  know 

Of  a  certain  star 
Is,  it  can  throw 

(Like  the  angled  spar) 
Now  a  dart  of  red, 

Now  a  dart  of  blue; 
Till  my  friends  have  said 

They  would  fain  see,  too, 
My  star  that  dartles  the  red  and  the  blue ! 
Then  it  stops  like  a  bird;  like  a  flower,  hangs  furled: 

They  must  solace  themselves  with  the  Saturn  above  it. 
What  matter  to  me  if  their  star  is  a  world? 

Mine  has  opened  its  soul  to  me;  therefore  I  love  it. 


A  FACE. 

IF  one  could  have  that  little  head  of  hers 
Painted  upon  a  background  of  pale  gold, 
Such  as  the  Tuscan's  early  art  prefers! 
No  shade  encroaching  on  the  matchless  mould 
Of  those  two  lips,  which  should  be  opening  soft 
In  the  pure  profile;  not  as  when  she  laughs, 
For  that  spoils  all :  but  rather  as  if  alof  b 
Yon  hyacinth,  she  loves  so,  leaned  its  staff's 
Burthen  of  honey-colored  buds,  to  kiss 
And  capture  'twixt  the  lips  apart  for  this. 


Then  her  lithe  neck,  three  fingers  might  surround. 
How  it  should  waver,  on  the  pale  gold  ground, 
Up  to  the  fruit-shaped,  perfect  chin  it  lifts! 
I  know,  Correggio  loves  to  mass,  in  rifts 
Of  heaven,  his  angel  faces,  orb  on  orb 
Breaking  its  outline,  burning  shades  absorb : 
But  these  are  only  massed  there,  I  should  think, 
Waiting  to  see  some  wonder  momently 
Grow  out,  stand  full,  fade  slow  against  the  sky 
(That's  the  pale  ground  you'd  see  this  sweet  face  by), 
All  heaven,  meanwhile,  condensed  into  one  eye 
Which  fears  to  lose  the  wonder,  should  it  wink. 


MY  LAST  DUCHESS. 

FERRARA. 

THAT'S  my  last  Duchess  painted  on  the  wall, 
Looking  as  if  she  were  alive.     I  call 
That  piece  a  wonder,  now :  Fra  Pandolf  's  hands 
Worked  busily  a  day,  and  there  she  stands. 
Will  't  please  you  sit  and  look  at  her?     I  said 
"Fra  Pandolf"  by  design:  for  never  read 
Strangers  like  you  that  pictured  countenance, 
The  depth  and  passion  of  its  earnest  glance, 
But  to  myself  they  turned  (since  none  puts  by 
The  curtain  I  have  drawn  for  you,  but  I) 
And  seemed  as  they  would  ask  me,  if  they  durst, 
How  such  a  glance  came  there;  so,  not  the  first 
Are  you  to  turn  and  ask  thus.     Sir,  't  was  not 
Her  husband's  presence  only,  called  that  spot 
Of  joy  into  the  Duchess'  cheek :  perhaps 
Fra  Pandolf  chanced  to  say  "Her  mantle  laps 
Over  my  lady's  wrist  too  much,"  or  "Paint 
Must  never  hope  to  reproduce  the  faint 


MY  LAST  DUCHESS.  3 

Half-flush  that  dies  along  her  throat:"  such  stuff 

Was  courtesy,  she  thought,  and  cause  enough 

For  calling  up  that  spot  of  joy.     She  had 

A  heart — how  shall  I  say? — too  soon  made  glad, 

Too  easily  impressed ;  she  liked  whate'er 

She  looked  on,  and  her  looks  went  everywhere. 

Sir,  't  was  all  one !     My  favor  at  her  hreast, 

The  dropping  of  the  daylight  in  the  West, 

The  bough  of  cherries  some  officious  fool 

Broke  in  the  orchard  for  her,  the  white  mule 

She  rode  with  round  the  terrace — all  and  each 

Would  draw  from  her  alike  the  approving  speech, 

Or  blush,  at  least.    She  thanked  men, — good !  but  thanked 

Somehow — I  know  not  how — as  if  she  ranked 

My  gift  of  a  nine-hundred-years-old  name 

With  anybody's  gift.     Who'd  stoop  to  blame 

This  sort  of  trifling?     Even  had  you  skill 

In  speech — (which  I  have  not) — to  make  your  will 

Quite  clear  to  such  an  one,  and  say,  "Just  this 

Or  that  in  you  disgusts  me;  here  you  miss, 

Or  there  exceed  the  mark" — and  if  she  let 

Herself  be  lessoned  so,  nor  plainly  set 

Her  wits  to  yours,  forsooth,  and  made  excuse, 

— E'en  then  would  be  some  stooping;  and  I  choose 

Never  to  stoop.     Oh  sir,  she  smiled,  no  doubt, 

Whene'er  I  passed  her;  but  who  passed  without 

Much  the  same  smile?     This  grew;  I  gave  commands, 

Then  all  smiles  stopped  together.     There  she  stands 

As  if  alive.     Will  't  please  you  rise?     We  '11  meet 

The  company  below,  then.     I  repeat, 

The  Count  your  master's  known  munificence 

Is  ample  warrant  that  no  just  pretence 

Of  mine  for  dowry  will  be  disallowed ; 

Though  his  fair  daughter's  self,  as  I  avowed 


SONGS  FROM  "  PIP  PA  PASSES." 

At  starting,  is  my  object.     Nay,  we'll  go 
Together  down,  sir.     Notice  Neptune,  though, 
Taming  a  sea-horse,  thought  a  rarity, 
Which  Glaus  of  Innsbruck  cast  in  bronze  for  mel 


SONGS  FKOM  "PIPPA  PASSES." 


GIVE  her  but  a  least  excuse  to  love  me ! 

"When — where — 
How — can  this  arm  establish  her  above  me, 

If  fortune  fixed  her  as  my  lady  there, 
There  already,  to  eternally  reprove  me? 

("Hist!" — said  Kate  the  queen; 
But  "Oh,"  cried  the  maiden,  binding  her  tresses, 

"'Tis  only  a  page  that  carols  unseen, 
Crumbling  your  hounds  their  messes!") 

n. 

Is  she  wronged? — To  the  rescue  of  her  honor, 

My  heart! 
Is  she  poor? — "What  costs  it  to  become  a  donor? 

Merely  an  earth  to  cleave,  a  sea  to  part. 
But  that  fortune  should  have  thrust  all  this  uponher! 

("Nay,  list!" — bade  Kate  the  queen; 
And  still  cried  the  maiden,  binding  her  tresses, 

"'Tis  only  a  page  that  carols  unseen. 
Fitting  your  hawks  their  jesses!") 


ORI8TINA. 


OEISTINA. 


SHE  should  never  have  looked  at  me  if  she  meant  I  should 

not  love  her! 
There  are  plenty  .  .  men,  you  call  such,  I  suppose  .  .  she 

may  discover 
All  her  soul  to,  if  she  pleases,  and  yet  leave  much  as  she 

found  them : 
But  I'm  not  so,  and  she  knew  it  when  she  fixed  me, 

glancing  round  them. 

n. 

What?    To  fix  me  thus  meant  nothing?    But  I  can't  tell 

(there's  my  weakness) 
"What  her  look  said! — no  vile  cant,  sure,  about  "need  to 

strew  the  bleakness 
Of  some  lone  shore  with  its  pearl-seed,  that  the  sea  feels" 

— no  "strange  yearning 
That  such  souls  have,  most  to  lavish  where  there's  chance 

of  least  returning." 

m. 

Oh  we're  sunk  enough  here,  God  knows!  but  not  quite  so 
sunk  that  moments, 

Sure  tho'  seldom,  are  denied  us,  when  the  spirit's  true 
endowments 

Stand  out  plainly  from  its  false  ones,  and  apprise  it  if  pur- 
suing 

Or  the  right  way  or  the  wrong  way,  to  its  triumph  or 
undoing. 


6  ORISTINA. 

rv. 

There  are  flashes  struck  from  midnights,  there  are  fire- 
flames  noondays  kindle, 

Whereby  piled-up  honors  perish,  whereby  swollen  ambi- 
tions dwindle, 

While  just  this  or  that  poor  impulse,  which  for  once  had 
play  unstifled, 

Seems  the  sole  work  of  a  life-time  that  away  the  rest  have 

trifled. 

v. 

Doubt  you  if,  in  some  such  moment,  as  she  fixed  me,  she 

felt  clearly, 

Ages  past  the  soul  existed,  here  an  age  't  is  resting  merely, 
An  hence  fleets  again  for  ages:   while  the  true  end,  sole 

and  single, 
It  stops  here  for  is,  this  love  way,  with  some  other  soul  to 

mingle? 

VI. 

Else  it  loses  what  it  lived  for,  and  eternally  must  lose  it; 
Better  ends  may  be  in  prospect,  deeper  blisses  (if  you 

choose  it), 
But  this  life's  end  and  this  love-bliss  have  been  lost  here. 

Doubt  you  whether 
This  she  felt  as,  looking  at  me,  mine  and  her  souls  rushed 

together? 

VII. 

Oh,    observe!    Of    course,  next    moment,  the    world's 

honors,  in  derision, 
Trampled  out  the  light  for  ever.     Never  fear  but  there  's 

provision 
Of  the  devil's  to  quench  knowledge,  lest  we  walk  the 

earth  in  rapture! 
— Making  those  who  catch  God's  secret,  just  so  much 

more  prize  their  capture  J 


COUNT  GI8MOND.  7 

VIII. 

Such  am  I:  the  secret's  mine  now!     She  has  lost  me,  I 

have  gained  her; 
Her  soul's  mine:   and  thus,  grown  perfect,  I  shall  pass 

my  life's  remainder. 
Life  will  just  hold  out  the  proving  both  our  powers,  alone 

and  blended: 
And  then,  come  next  life  quickly !    This  world's  use  will 

have  been  ended. 


COUNT  GISMOND. 

AIX  IN   PROVENCE. 
I. 

CHRIST  God  who  savest  man,  save  most 
Of  men  Count  Gismond  who  saved  me ! 

Count  Gauthier,  when  he  chose  his  post, 
Chose  time  and  place  and  company 

To  suit  it;  when  he  struck  at  length 

My  honor,  't  was  with  all  his  strength. 

II. 

And  doubtlessly,  ere  he  could  draw 

All  points  to  one,  he  must  have  schemed! 

That  miserable  morning  saw 
Few  half  so  happy  as  I  seemed, 

While  being  dressed  in  queen's  array 

To  give  our  tourney  prize  away. 

in. 

I  thought  they  loved  me,  did  me  grace 

To  please  themselves;  't  was  all  their  deed. 

God  makes,  or  fair  or  foul,  our  face; 
If  showing  mine  so  caused  to  bleed 


COUNT  UISMOND. 

My  cousins'  hearts,  they  should  have  dropped 
A  word,  and  straight  the  play  had  stopped. 

IV. 

They,  too,  so  beauteous !    Each  a  queen 
By  virtue  of  her  brow  and  breast; 

Not  needing  to  be  crowned,  I  mean, 
As  I  do.     E'en  when  I  was  dressed, 

Had  either  of  them  spoke,  instead 

Of  glancing  sideways  with  still  head ! 

v. 

But  no:  they  let  me  laugh,  and  sing 
My  birthday  song  quite  through,  adjust 

The  last  rose  in  my  garland,  fling 
A  last  look  on  the  mirror,  trust 

My  arms  to  each  an  arm  of  theirs, 

And  so  descend  the  castle-stairs — 

VI. 

And  come  out  on  the  morning  troop 
Of  merry  friends  who  kissed  my  cheek, 

And  called  me  queen,  and  made  me  stoop 
Under  the  canopy — (a  streak 

That  pierced  it,  of  the  outside  sun, 

Powdered  with  gold  its  gloom's  soft  dun) — 

VII. 

And  they  could  let  me  take  my  state 
And  foolish  throne  amid  applause 

Of  all  come  there  to  celebrate 
My  queen's  day — Oh  I  think  the  cause 

Of  much  was,  they  forgot  no  crowd 

Makes  up  for  parents  in  their  shroud! 


COUNT  GISMOND.  9 

VIII. 

However  that  be,  s>ll  eyes  were  bent 

Upon  me,  when  my  cousins  cast 
Theirs  down,  't  was  time  I  should  present 

The  victor's  crown,  but    .     .     .     there,  't  will  last 
No  long  time    .     .     .     the  old  mist  again 
Blinds  me  as  then  it  did.     How  vain! 

IX. 

See!  Gismond  's  at  the  gate,  in  talk 

With  his  two  boys:  I  can  proceed. 
"Well,  at  that  moment,  who  should  stalk 

Forth  boldly — to  my  face,  indeed — • 
But  Gauthier?  and  he  thundered  "Stay!" 
And  all  stayed.     ''Bring  no  crowns,  I  say! 

x. 

"Bring  torches!     Wind  the  penance-sheet 
"About  her!     Let  her  shun  the  chaste, 

"Or  lay  herself  before  their  feet! 
"Shall  she,  whose  body  I  embraced 

"A  night  long,  queen  it  in  the  day? 

"For  honor's  sake  no  crowns,  I  say!" 

XI. 

I?    What  I  answered?    As  I  live, 

I  never  fancied  such  a  thing 
As  answer  possible  to  give. 

What  says  the  body  when  they  spring 
Some  monstrous  torture-engine's  whole 
Strength  on  it?    No  more  says  the  soul. 

XII. 

Till  out  strode  Gismond;  then  I  knew 

That  I  was  saved.     I  never  met 
His  face  before,  but,  at  first  view, 

I  felt  quite  sure  that  God  had  set 


10  COUNT  GISMOND. 

Himself  to  Satan :  who  would  spend 
A  minute's  mistrust  on  the  end? 

XIII. 

He  strode  to  Gauthier,  in  his  throat 

Gave  him  the  lie,  then  struck  his  month 

With  one  back-handed  blow  that  wrote 
In  blood  men's  verdict  then.     North,  South, 

East,  West,  I  looked.     The  lie  was  dead, 

And  damned,  and  truth  stood  up  instead. 

XIV. 

This  glads  me  most,  that  I  enjoyed 
The  heart  o'  the  joy,  with  my  content 

In  watching  Gismond  unalloyed 
By  any  doubt  of  the  event: 

God  took  that  on  him — I  was  bid 

Watch  Gismond  for  my  part :  I  did. 

xv. 

Did  I  not  watch  him  while  he  let 

His  armorer  just  brace  his  greaves, 
Rivet  his  hauberk,  on  the  fret 

The  while!     His  foot     .     .     .     my  memory  leaves 
No  least  stamp  out,  nor  how  anon 
He  pulled  his  ringing  gauntlets  on. 

XVI. 

And  e'en  before  the  trumpet's  sound 
Was  finished,  prone  lay  the  false  knight, 

Prone  as  his  lie,  upon  the  ground: 
Gismond  flew  at  him,  used  no  sleight 

0'  the  sword,  but  open-breasted  drove, 

Cleaving  till  out  the  truth  he  clove. 


COUNT  GISMOND.  11 

XVII. 

Which  done,  he  dragged  him  to  my  feet 
And  said,  "Here  die,  but  end  thy  breath 

In  full  confession,  lest  thou  fleet 

From  my  first,  to  God's  second  death! 

Say,  hast  thou  lied?"     And,  "I  have  lied 

To  God  and  her,"  he  said,  and  died. 

XVIII. 

Then  Gismond,  kneeling  to  me,  asked 
— What  safe  my  heart  holds,  though  no  word 

Could  I  repeat  now,  if  I  tasked 
My  powers  for  ever,  to  a  third 

Dear  even  as  you  are.     Pass  the  rest 

Until  I  sank  upon  his  breast. 

XIX. 

Over  my  head  his  arm  he  flung 

Against  the  world;    and  scarce  I  felt 
His  sword  (that  dripped  by  me  and  swung) 

A  little  shifted  in  its  belt: 
For  he  began  to  say  the  while 
How  South  our  home  lay  many  a  mile. 

xx. 

So  'mid  the  shouting  multitude 

We  two  walked  forth  to  never  more 
Return.     My  cousins  have  pursued 

Their  life,  untroubled  as  before 
I  vexed  them.     Gauthier's  dwelling-place 
God  lighten !     May  his  soul  find  grace ! 

XXI. 

Our  elder  boy  has  got  the  clear 
Great  brow;  tho'  when  his  brother's  black 


THE  GLOVE. 

Full  eye  shows  scorn,  it    ...     Gismond  here? 

And  have  you  brought  my  tercel  back? 
I  was  just  telling  Adela 
How  many  birds  it  struck  since  May. 


EURYDICE  TO  ORPHEUS. 

A   PICTURE   BY   FREDERICK   LEIGHTON,  R.A. 

BUT  give  them  me,  the  mouth,  the  eyes,  the  brow! 
Let  them  once  more  absorb  me !     One  look  now 

Will  lap  me  round  for  ever,  not  to  pass 
Out  of  its  light,  though  darkness  lie  beyond: 
Hold  me  but  safe  again  within  the  bond 

Of  one  immortal  look !     All  woe  that  was, 
Forgotten,  and  all  terror  that  may  be, 
Defied, — no  past  is  mine,  no  future:  look  at  me! 


THE  GLOVE. 
(PETER  RONSARD  loquitur.') 

"HEIGHO,"  yawned  one  day  King  Francis, 

"Distance  all  value  enhances! 

When  a  man  's  busy,  why,  leisure 

Strikes  him  as  wonderful  pleasure: 

'Faith,  and  at  leisure  once  is  he? 

Straightway  he  wants  to  be  busy. 

Here  we  've  got  peace;  and  aghast  I  'm 

Caught  thinking  war  the  true  pastime. 

Is  there  a  reason  in  metre? 

Give  us  your  speech,  master  Peter  I" 

I  who,  if  mortal  dare  say  so, 

Ne'er  am  at  loss  with  my  Naso, 


THE  GLOVE.  13 

"Sire,"  I  replied,  "joys  prove  cloudlets: 

Men  are  the  merest  Ixions" — 

Here  the  King  whistled  aloud,  ''Let  's 

.     .     .     Heigho     .     .     .    go  look  at  our  lions!" 

Such  are  the  sorrowful  chances 

If  you  talk  fine  to  King  Francis. 

And  so,  to  the  courtyard  proceeding, 

Our  company,  Francis  was  leading, 

Increased  by  new  followers  tenfold 

Before  he  arrived  at  the  penfold ; 

Lords,  ladies,  like  clouds  which  bedizen 

At  sunset  the  western  horizon. 

And  Sir  de  Lorge  pressed  'mid  the  foremost 

With  the  dame  he  professed  to  adore  most — 

Oh,  what  a  face !     One  by  fits  eyed 

Her,  and  the  horrible  pitside; 

For  the  penfold  surrounded  a  hollow 

Which  led  where  the  eye  scarce  dared  follow, 

And  shelved  to  the  chamber  secluded 

Where  Bluebeard,  the  great  lion,  brooded. 

The  King  hailed  his  keeper,  an  Arab 

As  glossy  and  black  as  a  scarab, 

And  bade  him  make  sport  and  at  once  stir 

Up  and  out  of  his  den  the  old  monster. 

They  opened  a  hole  in  the  wire-work 

Across  it,  and  dropped  there  a  firework, 

And  fled:  one's  heart's  beating  redoubled; 

A  pause,  while  the  pit's  mouth  was  troubled, 

The  blackness  and  silence  so  utter, 

By  the  firework's  slow  sparkling  and  sputter; 

Then  earth  in  a  sudden  contortion 

Gave  out  to  our  gaze  her  abortion. 

Such  a  brute !    Were  I  friend  Clement  Marot 

(Whose  experience  of  nature  's  but  narrow, 


14  THE  GLOVE. 

And  whose  faculties  move  in  no  small  mist 

When  he  versifies  David  the  Psalmist) 

I  should  study  that  brute  to  describe  you 

Ilium  Juda  Leonem  de  Tribu. 

One's  whole  blood  grew  curdling  and  creepy 

To  see  the  black  mane,  vast  and  heapy, 

The  tail  in  the  air  stiff  and  straining, 

The  wide  eyes,  nor  waxing  nor  waning, 

As  over  the  barrier  which  bounded 

His  platform,  and  us  who  surrounded 

The  barrier,  they  reached  and  they  rested 

On  space  that  might  stand  him  in  best  stead : 

For  who  knew,  he  thought,  what  the  amazement, 

The  eruption  of  clatter  and  blaze  meant, 

And  if,  in  this  minute  of  wonder, 

No  outlet,  'mid  lightning  and  thunder, 

Lay  broad,  and,  his  shackles  all  shivered, 

The  lion  at  last  was  delivered? 

Ay,  that  was  the  open  sky  o'erhead ! 

And  you  saw  by  the  flash  on  his  forehead, 

By  the  hope  in  those  eyes  wide  and  steady, 

He  was  leagues  in  the  desert  already, 

Driving  the  flocks  up  the  mountain, 

Or  catlike  couched  hard  by  the  fountain 

To  waylay  the  date-gathering  negress: 

So  guarded  he  entrance  or  egress. 

"How  he  stands!"  quoth  the  King:  "we  may  well  swear, 

(No  novice,  we  've  won  our  spurs  elsewhere 

And  so  can  afford  the  confession,) 

We  exercise  wholesome  discretion 

In  keeping  aloof  from  his  threshold; 

Once  hold  you,  those  jaws  want  no  fresh  hold, 

Their  first  would  too  pleasantly  purloin 

The  visitor's  brisket  or  surloin : 

But  who  's  he  would  prove  so  fool-hardy? 

Not  the  best  man  of  Mariguau,  pardie!" 


THE  GLOVE.  15 

The  sentence  no  sooner  was  uttered, 
Than  over  the  rails  a  glove  fluttered, 
Fell  close  to  the  lion,  and  rested: 
The  dame  't  was  who  flung  it  and  jested 
With  life  so,  De  Lorge  had  been  wooing 
For  months  past;  he  sat  there  pursuing 
His  suit,  weighing  out  with  nonchalance 
Fine  speeches  like  gold  from  a  balance. 

Sound  the  trumpet,  no  true  knight  's  a  tarrier! 
De  Lorge  made  one  leap  at  the  barrier, 
Walked  straight  to  the  glove, — while  the  lion 
Ne'er  moved,  kept  his  far-reaching  eye  on 
The  palm-tree-edged  desert-spring's  sapphire, 
And  the  musky  oiled  skin  of  the  Kaffir, — 
Picked  it  up,  and  as  calmly  retreated, 
Leaped  back  where  the  lady  was  seated, 
And  full  in  the  face  of  its  owner 
Flung  the  glove. 

"Your  heart's  queen,  you  dethrone  her? 
So  should  I!" — cried  the  King — "'t  was  mere  vanity, 
Not  love,  set  that  task  to  humanity!" 
Lords  and  ladies  alike  turned  with  loathing 
From  such  a  proved  wolf  in  sheep's  clothing. 

Not  so,  I;  for  I  caught  an  expression 

In  her  brow's  undisturbed  self-possession 

Amid  the  Court's  scoffing  and  merriment, — 

As  if  from  no  pleasing  experiment 

She  rose,  yet  of  pain  not  much  heedful 

So  long  as  the  process  was  needful, — 

As  if  she  had  tried,  in  a  crucible, 

To  what  "speeches  like  gold"  were  reducible, 

And,  finding  the  finest  prove  copper, 

Felt  smoke  in  her  face  was  but  proper j 


16  THE  GLOVE. 

To  know  what  she  had  not  to  trust  to, 
Was  worth  all  the  ashes  and  dust  too. 
She  went  out  'mid  hooting  and  laughter; 
Clement  Marot  stayed;  I  followed  after, 
And  asked,  as  a  grace,  what  it  all  meant? 
If  she  wished  not  the  rash  deed's  recallment? 
"For  I" — so  I  spoke — "am  a  poet: 
Human  nature, — behooves  that  I  know  it!" 

She  told  me,  "Too  long  had  I  heard 
Of  the  deed  proved  alone  by  the  word : 
For  my  love — what  De  Lorge  would  not  dare ! 
With  my  scorn — what  De  Lorge  could  compare! 
And  the  endless  descriptions  of  death 
He  would  brave  when  my  lip  formed  a  breath, 
I  must  reckon  as  braved,  or,  of  course, 
Doubt  his  word — and  moreover,  perforce, 
For  such  gifts  as  no  lady  could  spurn, 
Must  offer  my  love  in  return. 
When  I  looked  on  your  lion,  it  brought 
All  the  dangers  at  once  to  my  thought, 
Encountered  by  all  sorts  of  men, 
Before  he  was  lodged  in  his  den, — 
From  the  poor  slave  whose  club  or  bare  hands 
Dug  the  trap,  set  the  snare  on  the  sands, 
With  no  King  and  no  Court  to  applaud, 
By  no  shame,  should  he  shrink,  overawed, 
Yet  to  capture  the  creature  made  shift, 
'    That  his  rude  boys  might  laugh  at  the  gift, 
— To  the  page  who  last  leaped  o'er  the  fence 
Of  the  pit,  on  no  greater  pretence 
Than  to  get  back  the  bonnet  he  dropped, 
Lest  his  pay  for  a  week  should  be  stopped. 
So,  wiser  I  judged  it  to  make 
One  trial  what  'death  for  my  sake' 


THE  GLOVE.  17 

Really  meant,  while  the  power  was  yet  mine, 

Than  to  wait  until  time  should  define 

Such  a  phrase  not  so  simply  as  I, 

Who  took  it  to  mean  just  'to  die.' 

The  blow  a  glove  gives  is  but  weak: 

Does  the  mark  yet  discolor  my  cheek? 

But  when  the  heart  suffers  a  blow, 

Will  the  pain  pass  so  soon,  do  you  know?" 

I  looked,  as  away  she  was  sweeping, 

And  saw  a  youth  eagerly  keeping 

As  close  as  he  dared  to  the  doorway. 

No  doubt  that  a  noble  should  more  weigli 

His  life  than  befits  a  plebeian ; 

And  yet,  had  our  brute  been  Nemean — 

(I  judge  by  a  certain  calm  fervor 

The  youth  stepped  with,  forward  to  serve  her) 

— He'd  have  scarce  thought  you  did  him  the  worst  turn 

If  you  whispered  "Friend,  what  you  'd  get,  first  earn!" 

And  when,  shortly  after,  she  carried 

Her  shame  from  the  Court,  and  they  married, 

To  that  marriage  some  happiness,  maugre 

The  voice  of  the  Court,  I  dared  augur. 

For  De  Lorge,  he  made  women  with  men  vie, 

Those  in  wonder  and  praise,  these  in  envy; 

And,  in  short,  stood  so  plain  a  head  taller 

That  he  woed  and  won     .     .     .     how  do  you  call  her? 

The  beauty,  that  rose  in  the  sequel 

To  the  King's  love,  who  loved  her  a  week  well. 

And  't  was  noticed  he  never  would  honor 

De  Lorge  (who  looked  daggers  upon  her) 

With  the  easy  commission  of  stretching 

His  legs  in  the  service,  and  fetching 

His  wife,  from  her  chamber,  those  straying 

Sad  gloves  she  was  always  mislaying, 


18  THEGLOVB. 

"While  the  King  took  the  closet  to  chat  in, — 

But  of  course  this  adventure  came  pat  in. 

And  never  the  King  told  the  story, 

How  bringing  a  glove  brought  such  glory, 

But  the  wife  smiled — "His  nerves  are  grown  firmer: 

Mine  he  brings  now  and  utters  no  murmur." 

Venienti  occurrite  morbo! 

With  which  moral  I  drop  my  theorbo. 


SONG. 

i, 

NAY  but  you,  who  do  not  love  her, 

Is  she  not  pure  gold,  my  mistress? 
Holds  earth  aught — speak  truth — above  her? 

Aught  like  this  tress,  see,  and  this  tress, 
And  this  last  fairest  tress  of  all, 
So  fair,  see,  ere  I  let  it  fall? 
n. 

Because,  you  spend  your  lives  in  praising; 

To  praise,  you  search  the  wide  world  over; 
Then  why  not  witness,  calmly  gazing, 

If  earth  holds  aught — speak  truth — above  her? 
Above  this  tress,  and  this,  I  touch 
But  cannot  praise,  I  love  so  much ! 


A  SERENADE  AT  THE  VILLA.  19 


A  SERENADE  AT  THE  VILLA. 

i. 
THAT  was  I,  you  heard  last  night, 

When  there  rose  no  moon  at  all, 
Nor,  to  pierce  the  strained  and  tight 

Tent  of  heaven,  a  planet  small: 
Life  was  dead,  and  so  was  light. 

n. 

Not  a  twinkle  from  the  fly, 
Not  a  glimmer  from  the  worm. 

When  the  crickets  stopped  their  cry, 
When  the  owls  forbore  a  term, 

You  heard  music;  that  was  I. 

in. 

Earth  turned  in  her  sleep  with  pain, 

Sultrily  suspired  for  proof: 
In  at  heaven  and  out  again, 

Lightning! — where  it  broke  the  roof, 
Bloodlike,  some  few  drops  of  rain. 

IV. 

What  they  could  my  words  expressed, 

0  my  love,  my  all,  my  one! 
Singing  helped  the  verses  best, 

And  when  singing's  best  was  done, 
To  my  lute  I  left  the  rest. 

v. 

So  wore  night;  the  East  was  gray, 
White  the  broad-faced  hemlock-flowers; 

There  would  be  another  day; 
Ere  its  first  of  heavy  hours 

Found  me,  I  had  passed  away. 


20  ^  SERENADE  AT  THE  VILLA. 

VI. 

What  became  of  all  the  hopes, 
Words  and  song  and  lute  as  well? 

Say,  this  struck  you — '"When  life  gropes 
Feebly  from  the  path  where  fell 

Light  last  on  the  evening  slopes, 

VII. 

"One  friend  in  that  path  shall  be, 
To  secure  my  step  from  wrong; 

One  to  count  night  day  for  me, 
Patient  through  the  watches  long, 

Serving  most  with  none  to  see." 

VIII. 

Never  say — as  something  bodes — 
"So,  the  worst  has  yet  a  worse! 

When  life  halts  'neath  double  loads, 
Better  the  task-master's  curse 

Than  such  music  on  the  roads! 

IX. 

"When  no  moon  succeeds  the  sun. 
Nor  can  pierce  the  midnight's  tent, 

Any  star,  the  smallest  one, 
While  some  drops,  where  lightning  rent, 

Show  the  final  storm  begun — 

x. 

''When  the  fire-fly  hides  its  spot, 
When  the  garden-voices  fail 

In  the  darkness  thick  and  hot, — 
Shall  another  voice  avail, 

That  shape  be  where  these  are  not? 


JOUTH  AND  ART.  21 

XI. 

"Has  some  plague  a  longer  lease, 

Proffering  its  help  uncouth? 
Can't  one  even  die  in  peace? 

As  one  shuts  one's  eyes  on  youth, 
Is  that  face  the  last  one  sees?" 

XII. 

Oh  how  dark  your  villa  was, 

Windows  fast  and  obdurate ! 
How  the  garden  grudged  me  grass 

Where  I  stood — the  iron  gate 
Ground  its  teeth  to  let  me  pass! 


YOUTH  AND  ART. 
i. 

IT  once  might  have  been,  once  only: 

We  lodged  in  a  street  together, 
You,  a  sparrow  on  the  housetop  lonely, 

I,  a  lone  she-bird  of  his  feather. 

11. 

Your  trade  was  with  sticks  and  clay, 
You  thumbed,  thrust,  patted  and  polished, 

Then  laughed  ''They  will  see,  some  day, 
Smith  made,  and  Gibson  demolished." 

in. 

My  business  was  song,  song,  song; 

I  chirped,  cheeped,  trilled  and  twittered, 
"Kate  Brown  's  on  the  boards  ere  long, 

And  Grisi's  existence  embittered!" 


22  YOUTH  AND  ART. 

IV. 

I  earned  no  more  by  a  warble 
Than  you  by  a  sketch  in  plaster; 

You  wanted  a  piece  of  marble, 
I  needed  a  music-master. 

v. 

We  studied  hard  in  our  styles, 

Chipped  each  at  a  crust  like  Hindoos, 

For  air,  looked  out  on  the  tiles, 
For  fun,  watched  each  other's  windows. 

VI. 

You  lounged,  like  a  boy  of  the  South, 
Cap  and  blouse — nay,  a  bit  of  beard  too; 

Or  you  got  it,  rubbing  your  mouth 
"With  fingers  the  clay  adhered  to. 

VII. 

And  I — soon  managed  to  find 

Weak  points  in  the  flower-fence  facing, 

Was  forced  to  put  up  a  blind 
And  be  safe  in  my  corset-lacing. 

VIII. 

No  harm !    It  was  not  my  fault 

If  you  never  turned  your  eye's  tail  up 

As  I  shook  upon  E  in  alt., 

Or  ran  the  chromatic  scale  up: 

IX. 

For  spring  bade  the  sparrows  pair, 
And  the  boys  and  girls  gave  guesses, 

And  stalls  in  our  street  looked  rare 
With  bulrush  and  watercresses. 


YOUTH  AND  ART.  23 


x. 


Why  did  not  you  pinch  a  flower 
In  a  pellet  of  clay  and  fling  it? 

Why  did  not  I  put  a  power 

Of  thanks  in  a  look,  or  sing  it? 


XI. 


I  did  look,  sharp  as  a  lynx, 
(And  yet  the  memory  rankles) 

When  models  arrived,  some  minx 

Tripped  up-stairs,  she  and  her  ankles. 


XII. 


But  I  think  I  gave  you  as  good ! 

"That  foreign  fellow, — who  can  know 
How  she  pays,  in  a  playful  mood, 

For  his  tuning  her  that  piano?" 


XIII. 


Could  you  say  so,  and  never  say 

"Suppose  we  join  hands  and  fortunes, 

And  I  fetch  her  from  over  the  way, 

Her,  piano,  and  long  tunes  and  short  tunes?' 


XIV. 


No,  no:  you  would  not  be  rash, 
Nor  I  rasher  and  something  over: 

You  've  to  settle  yet  Gibson's  hash, 
And  Grisi  yet  lives  in  clover. 


xv. 


But  you  meet  the  Prince  at  the  Board, 
I  'm  queen  myself  at  bals-pare, 

I  've  married  a  rich  old  lord, 

And  you  're  dubbed  knight  and  an  K.  A. 


24  THE  FLIGHT  OF  THE  D  TJCHESS. 


XVI. 


Each  life  's  unfulfilled,  you  see; 

It  hangs  still,  patchy  and  scrappy : 
We  have  not  sighed  deep,  laughed  free, 

Starved,  feasted,  despaired, — been  happy. 


XVII. 


And  nobody  calls  you  a  dunce, 
And.people  suppose  me  clever: 

This  could  but  have  happened  once, 
And  we  missed  it,  lost  it  for  ever. 


THE  FLIGHT  OF  THE  DUCHESS, 
i. 

You  'RE  my  friend: 

I  was  the  man  the  Duke  spoke  to; 

I  helped  the  Duchess  to  cast  off  his  yoke,  too; 

So,  here's  the  tale  from  beginning  to  end, 

My  friend ! 

ii. 

Ours  is  a  great  wild  country: 

If  you  climb  to  our  castle's  top, 

I  don't  see  where  your  eye  can  stop; 

For  when  you  've  passed  the  corn-field  country, 

Where  vineyards  leave  off,  flocks  are  packed, 

And  sheep-range  leads  to  cattle-tract, 

And  cattle-track  to  open-chase, 

And  open-chase  to  the  very  base 

0'  the  mountain  where,  at  a  funeral  pace, 

Round  about,  solemn  and  slow, 

One  by  one,  row  after  row, 


THE  FLIGHT  OF  THE  DUCHESS.  25 

Up  and  up  the  pine-trees  go, 

So,  like  black  priests  up,  and  so 

Down  the  o^her  side  again 

To  another  greater,  wilder  country, 

That  's  one  vast  red  drear  burnt-up  plain, 

Branched  through  and  through  with  many  a  vein 

Whence  iron  's  dug,  and  copper  's  dealt; 

Look  right,  look  left,  look  straight  before, — 

Beneath  they  mine,  above  they  smelt, 

Copper-ore  and  iron-ore, 

And  forge  and  furnace  mould  and  melt, 

And  so  on,  more  and  ever  more, 

Till  at  the  last,  for  a  bounding  belt, 

Conies  the  salt  sand  hoar  of  the  great  sea-shore, 

— And  the  whole  is  our  Duke's  country. 

in. 

I  was  born  the  day  this  present  Duke  was — 
(And  0,  says  the  song,  ere  I  was  old !) 
In  the  castle  where  the  other  Duke  was — 
(When  I  was  happy  and  young,  not  old!) 
I  in  the  kennel,  he  in  the  bower: 
We  are  of  like  age  to  an  hour. 
My  father  was  huntsman  in  that  day; 
Who  has  not  heard  my  father  say 
That,  when  a  boar  was  brought  to  bay, 
Three  times,  four  times  out  of  five, 
With  his  huntspear  he  'd  contrive 
To  get  the  killing-place  transfixed, 
And  pin  him  true,  both  eyes  betwixt? 
And  that  's  why  the  old  Duke  would  rather 
He  lost  a  salt-pit  than  my  father, 
And  loved  to  have  him  ever  in  call; 
That 's  why  my  father  stood  in  the  hall 


26  THE  FLIGHT  OF  THE  DUCHESS. 

When  the  old  Duke  brought  his  infant  out 

To  show  the  people,  and  while  they  passed 

The  wondrous  bantling  round  about, 

Was  first  to  start  at  the  outside  blast 

As  the  Kaiser's  courier  blew  his  horn, 

Just  a  month  after  the  babe  was  born. 

"And,"  quoth  the  Kaiser's  courier,  "since 

The  Duke  has  got  an  heir,  our  Prince 

Needs  the  Duke's  self  at  his  side:" 

The  Duke  looked  down  and  seemed  to  wince, 

But  he  thought  of  wars  o'er  the  world  wide, 

Castles  a-fire,  men  on  their  march, 

The  toppling  tower,  the  crashing  arch; 

And  up  he  looked,  and  awhile  he  eyed 

The  row  of  crests  and  shields  and  banners 

Of  all  achievements  after  all  manners, 

And  "ay,"  said  the  Duke  with  a  surly  pride. 

The  more  was  his  comfort  when  he  died 

At  next  year's  end,  in  a  velvet  suit, 

With  a  gilt  glove  on  his  hand,  his  foot 

In  a  silken  shoe  for  a  leather  boot, 

Petticoated  like  a  herald, 

In  a  chamber  next  to  an  ante-room, 

Where  he  breathed  the  breath  of  page  and  groom, 

What  he  called  stink,  and  they,  perfume: 

— They  should  have  set  him  on  red  Berold 

Mad  with  pride,  like  fire  to  manage! 

They  should  have  got  his  cheek  fresh  tannage 

Such  a  day  as  to-day  in  the  merry  sunshine! 

Had  they  stuck  on  his  fist  a  rough-foot  merlin! 

(Hark,  the  wind  's  on  the  heath  at  its  game! 

Oh  for  a  noble  falcon-lanner 

To  flap  each  broad  wing  like  a  banner, 

And  turn  in  the  wind,  and  dance  like  flame!) 

Had  they  broached  a  cask  of  white  beer  from  Berlin! 


THE  PLIGHT  OF  THE  DUCHESS.  27 

—Or  if  you  incline  to  prescribe  mere  wine 
Put  to  his  lips  when  they  saw  him  pine, 
A  cup  of  our  own  Moldavia  fine, 
Cotnar  for  instance,  green  as  May  sorrel 
And  ropy  with  sweet, — we  shall  not  quarrel. 

IV. 

So,  at  home,  the  sick  tall  yellow  Duchess 

Was  left  with  the  infant  in  her  clutches, 

She  being  the  daughter  of  God  knows  who: 

And  now  was  the  time  to  revisit  her  tribe. 

Abroad  and  afar  they  went,  the  two, 

And  let  our  people  rail  and  gibe 

At  the  empty  hall  and  extinguished  fire, 

As  loud  as  we  liked,  but  ever  in  vain, 

Till  after  long  years  we  had  our  desire, 

And  back  came  the  Duke  and  his  mother  again. 

v. 

And  he  came  back  the  pertest  little  ape 

That  ever  affronted  human  shape; 

Full  of  his  travel,  struck  at  himself. 

You  'd  say,  he  despised  our  bluff  old  ways? 

— Not  he !     For  in  Paris  they  told  the  elf 

That  our  rough  North  land  was  the  land  of  Lays, 

The  one  good  thing  left  in  evil  days; 

Since  the  Mid-Age  was  the  Heroic  Time, 

And  only  in  wild  nooks  like  ours 

Could  you  taste  of  it  yet  as  in  its  prime, 

And  see  true  castles  with  proper  towers, 

Young-hearted  women,  old-minded  men, 

And  manners  now  as  manners  were  then. 

So,  all  that  the  old  Dukes  had  been,  without  knowing  it, 

This  Duke  would  fain  know  he  was,  without  being  it; 


28  THE  FLIGHT  OF  THE  DUCHESS. 

'T  was  not  for  the  joy's  self,  but  the  joy  of  his  showing  it, 
Nor  for  the  pride's  self,  but  the  pride  of  our  seeing  it, 
He  revived  all  usages  thoroughly  worn-out, 
The  souls  of  them  fumed-forth,  the  hearts  of  them  torn- 
out: 

And  chief  in  the  chase  his  neck  he  perilled, 
On  a  lathy  horse,  all  legs  and  length, 
With  blood  for  bone,  all  speed,  no  strength; 
— They  should  have  set  him  on  Eed  Berold 
With  the  red  eye  slow  consuming  in  fire, 
And  the  thin  stiff  ear  like  an  abbey  spire ! 

VI. 

Well,  such  as  he  was,  he  must  marry,we  heard: 

And  out  of  a  convent,  at  the  word, 

Came  the  lady,  in  time  of  spring. 

— Oh,  old  thoughts  they  cling,  they  cling! 

That  day,  I  know,  with  a  dozen  oaths 

I  clad  myself  in  thick  hunting-clothes 

Fit  for  the  chase  of  urox  or  buffle 

In  winter-time  when  you  need  to  muffle. 

But  the  Duke  had  a  mind  we  should  cut  a  figure, 

And  so  we  saw  the  lady  arrive: 

My  friend,  I  have  seen  a  white  crane  bigger! 

She  was  the  smallest  lady  alive, 

Made  in  a  piece  of  nature's  madness, 

Too  small,  almost,  for  the  life  and  gladness 

That  over-filled  her,  as  some  hive 

Out  of  the  bears'  reach  on  the  high  trees 

Is  crowded  with  its  safe  merry  bees : 

In  truth,  she  was  not  hard  to  please ! 

Up  she  looked,  down  she  looked,  round  at  the  mead, 

Straight  at  the  castle,  that  's  best  indeed 

To  look  at  from  outside  the  walls: 

As  for  us,  styled  the  "serfs  and  thralls," 


THE  FLIGHT  OF  THE  DUCHESS..  29 

She  as  much  thanked  me  as  if  she  had  said  it, 

(With  her  eyes,  do  you  understand?) 

Because  I  patted  her  horse  while  I  led  it; 

And  Max,  who  rode  on  her  other  hand, 

Said,  no  bird  flew  past  but  she  inquired 

What  its  true  name  was,  nor  ever  seemed  tired — 

If  that  was  an  eagle  she  saw  hover, 

And  the  green  and  gray  bird  on  the  field  was  the  plover, 

When  suddenly  appeared  the  Duke: 

And  as  down  she  sprung,  the  small  foot  pointed 

On  to  my  hand, — as  with  a  rebuke, 

And  as  if  his  backbone  were  not  jointed, 

The  Duke  stepped  rather  aside  than  forward, 

And  welcomed  her  with  his  grandest  smile; 

And,  mind  you,  his  mother  all  the  while 

Chilled  in  the  rear,  like  a  wind  to  Nor' ward; 

And  up,  like  a  weary  yawn,  with  its  pullies 

Went,  in  a  shriek,  the  rusty  portcullis; 

And,  like  a  glad  sky  the  north-wind  sullies, 

The  lady's  face  stopped  its  play, 

As  if  her  first  hair  had  grown  gray; 

For  such  things  must  begin  some  one  day. 

VII. 

In  a  day  or  two  she  was  well  again ; 

As  who  should  say,  "You  labor  in  vain! 

This  is  all  a  jest  against  God,  who  meant 

I  should  ever  be,  as  I  am,  content 

And  glad  in  his  sight;  therefore,  glad  I  will  be." 

So,  smiling  as  at  first  went  she. 

VIII. 

She  was  active,  stirring,  all  fire — • 
Could  not  rest,  could  not  tire — 
To  a  stone  she  might  have  given  life! 
(I  myself  loved  once,  in  my  day) 


30  THE  FLIGHT  OF  THE  DUCHESS. 

— For  a  shepherd's,  miner's,  huntsman's  wife, 
(I  had  a  wife,  I  know  what  I  say) 
Never  in  all  the  world  such  an  one! 
And  here  was  plenty  to  be  done, 
And  she  that  could  do  it,  great  or  small, 
She  was  to  do  nothing  at  al. 
There  was  already  this  man  in  his  post, 
This  in  his  station,  and  that  in  his  office, 
And  the  Duke's  plan  admitted  a  wife,  at  most, 
To  meet  his  eye,  with  the  other  trophies, 
Now  outside  the  hall,  now  in  it 
To  sit  thus,  stand  thus,  see  and  be  seen, 
At  the  proper  place  in  the  proper  minute, 
And  die  away  the  life  between. 
.    And  it  was  amusing  enough,  each  infraction 
Of  rule — (but  for  after-sadness  that  came) 
To  hear  the  consummate  self-satisfaction 
With  which  the  young  Duke  and  the  old  dame 
Would  let  her  advise,  and  criticise, 
And,  being  a  fool,  instruct  the  wise, 
And,  child-like,  parcel  out  praise  or  blame: 
They  bore  it  all  in  complacent  guise, 
As  though  an  artificer,  after  contriving 
A  wheel-work  image  as  if  it  were  living, 
Should  find  with  delight  it  could  motion  to  strike  him ! 
So  found  the  Duke,  and  his  mother  like  him: 
The  lady  hardly  got  a  rebuff — 
That  had  not  been  contemptuous  enough, 
With  his  cursed  smirk,  as  he  nodded  applause, 
And  kept  off  the  old  mother-cat's  claws. 

IX. 

So,  the  little  lady  grew  silent  and  thin, 

Paling  and  ever  paling, 
As  the  way  is  with  a  hid  chagrin; 

And  the  Duke  perceived  that  she  was  ailing, 


THE  FLIGHT  OF  THE  DUCHESS.  31 

And  said  in  his  heart,  *"T  is  done  to  spite  me, 
But  I  shall  find  in  my  power  to  right  me!" 
Don't  swear,  friend !     The  old  one,  many  a  year, 
Is  in  hell,  and  the  Duke's  self  .  .  .  you  shall  hear. 

x. 

Well,  early  in  autumn,  at  first  winter-warning, 

"When  the  stag  had  to  break  with  his  foot,  of  a  morning, 

A  drinking-hole  out  of  the  fresh  tender  ice, 

That  covered  the  pond  till  the  sun,  in  a  trice, 

Loosening  it,  let  out  a  ripple  of  gold, 

And  another  and  another,  and  faster  and  faster, 

Till,  dimpling  to  blindness,  the  wide  water  rolled — 

Then  it  so  chanced  that  the  Duke  our  master 

Asked  himself  what  were  the  pleasures  in  season, 

And  found,  since  the  calendar  bade  him  be  hearty, 

He  should  do  the  Middle  Age  no  treason 

In  resolving  on  a  hunting-party. 

Always  provided,  old  books  showed  the  way  of  it! 

What  meant  old  poets  by  their  strictures? 

And  when  old  poets  had  said  their  say  of  it, 

How  taught  old  painters  in  their  pictures? 

We  must  revert  to  the  proper  channels, 

Workings  in  tapestry,  paintings  on  panels, 

And  gather  up  woodcraft's  authentic  traditions: 

Here  was  food  for  our  various  ambitious, 

As  on  each  case,  exactly  stated — 

To  encourage  your  dog,  now,  the  properest  chirrup, 

Or  best  prayer  to  St.  Hubert  on  mounting  your  stirrup — 

We  of  the  household  took  thought  and  debated. 

Blessed  was  he  whose  back  ached  with  the  jerkin 

His  sire  was  wont  to  do  forest-work  in; 

Blesseder  he  who  nobly  sunk  "ohs" 

And  "ahs"  while  he  tugged  on  his  grandsire's  trunk-hose; 


82  THE  FLIGHT  OF  THE  DUCHESS. 

What  signified  hats  if  they  had  no  rims  on, 

Each  slouching  before  and  behind  like  the  scallop, 

And  able  to  serve  at  sea  for  a  shallop, 

Loaded  with  lacquer  and  looped  with  crimson? 

So  that  the  deer  now,  to  make  a  short  rhyme  on  't, 

What  with  our  Venerers,  Prickers  and  Verderers, 

Might  hope  for  real  hunters  at  length  and  not  murderers, 

And  oh  the  Duke's  tailor,  he  had  a  hot  time  on  't ! 

XI. 

Now  you  must  know  that  when  the  first  dizziness 

Of  flap- hats  and  buff-coats  and  jack-boots  subsided 

The  Duke  put  this  question,  "The  Duke's  part  provided, 

Had  not  the  Duchess  some  share  in  the  business?" 

For  out  of  the  mouth  of  two  or  three  witnesses 

Did  he  establish  all  fit-or-unfitnesses : 

And,  after  much  laying  of  heads  together, 

Somebody's  cap  got  a  notable  feather 

By  the  announcement  with  proper  unction 

That  he  had  discovered  the  lady's  function; 

Since  ancient  authors  gave  this  tenet, 

"When  horns  wind  a  mort  and  the  deer  is  at  siege, 

Let  the  dame  of  the  castle  prick  forth  on  her  jennet, 

And  with  water  to  wash  the  hands  of  her  liege 

In  a  clean  ewer  with  a  fair  toweling, 

Let  her  preside  at  the  disemboweling." 

Now,  my  friend,  if  you  had  so  little  religion 

As  to  catch  a  hawk,  some  falcon-lanner, 

And  thrust  her  broad  wings  like  a  banner 

Into  a  coop  for  a  vulgar  pigeon ; 

And  if  day  by  day  and  week  by  week 

You  cut  her  claws,  and  sealed  her  eyes, 

And  clipped  her  wings,  and  tied  her  beak, 

Would  it  cause  you  any  great  surprise 

If,  when  you  decided  to  give  her  an  airing, 

You  found  she  needed  a  little  preparing? 


THE  FLIGHT  OF  THE  D  UCHESS.  33 

— I  say,  should  you  be  such  a  curmudgeon, 

If  she  clung  to  the  perch,  as  to  take  it  in  dudgeon? 

Yet  when  the  Duke  to  his  lady  signified, 

Just  a  day  before,  as  he  judged  most  dignified, 

In  what  a  pleasure  she  was  to  participate, — 

And,  instead  of  leaping  wide  in  flashes, 

Her  eyes  just  lifted  their  long  lashes, 

As  if  pressed  by  fatigue  even  he  could  not  dissipate, 

And  duly  acknowledged  the  Duke's  forethought, 

But  spoke  of  her  health,  if  her  health  were  worth  aught, 

Of  the  weight  by  day  and  the  watch  by  night, 

And  much  wrong  now  that  used  to  be  right, 

So,  thanking  him,  declined  the  hunting, — 

Was  conduct  ever  more  affronting? 

With  all  the  ceremony  settled — 

With  the  towel  ready,  and  the  sewer 

Polishing  up  his  oldest  ewer, 

And  the  jennet  pitched  upon,  a  pieballed, 

Black-barred,  cream-coated  and  pink  eye-balled, — 

No  wonder  if  the  Duke  was  nettled ! 

And  when  she  persisted  nevertheless, — 

Well,  I  suppose  here  's  the  time  to  confess 

That  there  ran  half  round  our  lady's  chamber 

A  balcony  none  of  the  hardest  to  clamber; 

And  that  Jacynth  the  tire-woman,  ready  in  waiting, 

Stayed  in  call  outside,  what  need  of  relating? 

And  since  Jacynth  was  like  a  June  rose,  why,  a  fervent 

Adorer  of  Jacynth  of  course  was  your  servant; 

And  if  she  had  the  habit  to  peep  through  the  casement, 

How  could  I  keep  at  any  vast  distance? 

And  so,  as  I  say,  on  the  lady's  persistence, 

The  Duke,  dumb  stricken  with  amazement, 

Stood  for  a  while  in  a  sultry  smother, 

And  then,  with  a  smile  that  partook  of  the  awful, 

Turned  her  over  to  his  yellow  mother 

To  learn  what  was  decorus  and  lawful; 


34  THE  FLIGHT  OF  THE  DUCHESS. 

And  the  mother  smelt  blood  with  a  cat-like  instinct, 

As  her  cheek  quick  whitened  thro'  all  its  quiucetinct. 

Oh,  but  the  lady  heard  the  whole  truth  at  once! 

What  meant  she? — Who  was  she? — Her  duty  and  station. 

The  wisdom  of  age  and  the  folly  of  youth,  at  once, 

Its  decent  regard  and  its  fitting  relation — 

In  brief,  my  friend,  set  all  the  devils  in  hell  free 

And  turn  them  out  to  carouse  in  a  belfry 

And  treat  the  priests  to  a  fifty-part  canon, 

And  then  you  may  guess  how  that  tongue  of  hers  ran  on ! 

Well,  somehow  or  other  it  ended  at  last, 

And,  licking  her  whiskers,  out  she  passed; 

And  after  her, — making  (he  hoped)  a  face 

Like  Emperor  Nero  or  Sultan  Saladin, 

Stalked  the  Duke's  self  with  the  austere  grace 

Of  ancient  hero  or  modern  paladin, 

From  door  to  staircase — oh  such  a  solemn 

Unbending  of  the  vertebral  column ! 

XII. 

However,  at  sunrise  our  company  mustered ; 
And  here  was  the  huntsman  bidding  unkennel, 
And  there  'neath  his  bonnet  the  pricker  blustered, 
With  feather  dank  as  a  bough  of  wet  fennel; 
For  the  court-yard  walls  were  filled  with  fog 
You  might  cut  as  an  axe  chops  a  log — 
Like  so  much  wool  for  color  and  bulkiness; 
And  out  rode  the  Duke  in  a  perfect  sulkiness, 
Since,  before  breakfast,  a  man  feels  but  queasily, 
And  a  sinking  at  the  lower  abdomen 
Begins  the  day  with  indifferent  omen. 
And  lo,  as  he  looked  around  uneasily, 
The  sun  ploughed  the  fog  up  and  drove  it  asunder. 
This  way  and  that,  from  the  valley  under; 


THE  FLIGHT  OF  THE  DUCHESS.  35 

And,  looking  through  the  court-yard  arch, 
Down  in  the  valley,  what  should  meet  him 
But  a  troop  of  Gypsies  on  their  march? 
No  doubt  with  the  annual  gifts  to  greet  him. 

XIII. 

Now,  in  your  land,  Gypsies  reach  you,  only 

After  reaching  all  lands  beside; 

North  they  go,  South  they  go,  trooping  or  lonely, 

And  still,  as  they  travel  far  and  wide, 

Catch  they  and  keep  now  a  trace  here,  a  trace  there, 

That  puts  you  in  mind  of  a  place  here,  a  place  there, 

But  with  us,  I  believe  they  rise  out  of  the  ground, 

And  nowhere  else,  I  take  it,  are  found 

With  the  earth-tint  yet  so  freshly  embrowned; 

Born,  no  doubt,  like  insects  which  breed  on 

The  very  fruit  they  are  meant  to  feed  on. 

For  the  earth — not  a  use  to  which  they  don't  turn  it, 

The  ore  that  grows  in  the  mountain's  womb, 

Or  the  sand  in  the  pits  like  a  honeycomb, 

They  sift  and  soften  it,  bake  it  and  burn  it — 

Whether  they  weld  you,  for  instance,  a  snaffle 

With  side-bars  never  a  brute  can  baffle; 

Or  a  lock  that's  a  puzzle  of  wards  within  wards; 

Or,  if  your  colt  's  fore  foot  inclines  to  curve  inwards, 

Horseshoes  they  hammer  which  turn  on  a  swivel 

And  won't  allow  the  hoof  to  shrivel. 

Then  they  cast  bells  like  the  shell  of  the  winkle 

That  keep  a  stout  heart  in  the  ram  with  their  tinkle; 

But  the  sand — they  pinch  and  pound  it  like  otters; 

Commend  me  to  Gypsy  glass-makers  and  potters! 

Glasses  they  '11  blow  you,  crystal-clear, 

Where  just  a  faint  cloud  of  rose  shall  appear, 

As  if  in  pure  water  you  dropped  and  let  die 

A  bruised  black-blooded  mulberry; 


36  THE  FLIGHT  OF  THE  DUCHESS. 

And  that  other  sort,  their  crowning  pride, 

With  long  white  threads  distinct  inside, 

Like  the  lake  flower's  fibrous  roots  which  dangle 

Loose  such  a  length  and  never  tangle, 

Where  the  bold  sword-lily  cuts  the  clear  waters, 

And  the  cup-lily  couches  with  all  the  white  daughters: 

Such  are  the  works  they  put  their  hand  to, 

The  uses  they  turn  and  twist  iron  and  sand  to. 

And  these  made  the  troop,  which  our  Duke  saw  sally 

Toward  his  castle  from  out  of  the  valley, 

Men  and  women,  like  new-hatched  spiders, 

Come  out  with  the  morning  to  greet  our  riders. 

And  up  they  wound  till  they  reached  the  ditch, 

Whereat  all  stopped  save  one,  a  witch 

That  I  knew,  as  she  hobbled  from  the  group, 

By  her  gait  directly  and  her  stoop, 

I,  whom  Jacynth  was  used  to  importune 

To  let  that  same  witch  tell  us  our  fortune. 

The  oldest  Gypsy  then  above  ground; 

And,  sure  as  the  autumn  season  came  round, 

She  paid  us  a  visit  for  profit  or  pastime, 

And  every  time,  as  she  swore,  for  the  last  time. 

And  presently  she  was  seen  to  sidle 

Up  to  the  Duke  till  she  touched  his  bridle, 

So  that  the  horse  of  a  sudden  reared  up 

As  under  its  nose  the  old  witch  peered  up 

With  her  worn-out  eyes,  or  rather  eye-holes, 

Of  no  use  now  but  to  gather  brine, 

And  began  a  kind  of  level  whine 

Such  as  they  used  to  sing  to  their  viols 

When  their  ditties  they  go  grinding 

Up  and  down  with  nobody  minding: 

And  then,  as  of  old,  at  the  end  of  the  humming 

Her  usual  presents  were  forthcoming 


THE  FLIGHT  OF  THE  DUCHESS.  37 

— A  dog-whistle  blowing  the  fiercest  of  trebles, 

(Just  a  sea-shore  stone  holding  a  dozen  fine  pebbles,) 

Or  a  porcelain  mouth-piece  to  screw  on  a  pipe-end, — 

And  so  she  awaited  her  annual  stipend. 

But  this  time,  the  Duke  would  scarcely  vouchsafe 

A  word  in  reply;  and  in  vain  she  felt 

With  twitching  fingers  at  her  belt 

For  the  purse  of  sleek  pine-marten  pelt, 

Keady  to  put  what  he  gave  in  her  pouch  safe, — 

Till,  either  to  quicken  his  apprehension, 

Or  possibly  with  an  after-intention, 

She  was  come,  she  said,  to  pay  her  duty 

To  the  new  Duchess,  the  youthful  beauty. 

No  sooner  nad  she  named  his  lady, 

Than  a  shine  lit  up  the  face  so  shady, 

And  its  smirk  returned  with  a  novel  meaning — 

For  it  struck  him,  the  babe  just  wanted  weaning: 

If  one  gave  her  a  taste  of  what  life  was  and  sorrow 

She,  foolish  to-day,  would  be  wiser  to-morrow; 

And  who  so  fit  a  teacher  of  trouble 

As  this  sordid  crone  bent  well-nigh  double? 

So,  glancing  at  her  wolf-skin  vesture, 

(If  such  it  was,  for  they  grow  so  hirsute 

That  their  own  fleece  serves  for  natural  fur-suit) 

He  was  contrasting,  't  was  plain  from  his  gesture, 

The  life  of  the  lady  so  flower-like  and  delicate 

With  the  loathsome  squalor  of  this  helicat. 

I,  in  brief,  was  the  man  the  Duke  beckoned 

From  out  of  the  throng,  and  while  I  drew  near 

He  told  the  crone — as  I  since  have  reckoned 

By  the  way  he  bent  and  spoke  into  her  ear 

With  circumspection  and  mystery — 

The  main  of  the  lady's  history, 

Her  frowardness  and  ingratitude; 

And  for  all  the  crone's  submissive  attitude 


38  THE  FLIGHT  OF  THE  D  TTCHESS. 

I  could  see  round  her  month  the  loose  plaits  tightening 

And  her  brow  with  assenting  intelligence  brightening 

As  thongh  she  engaged  with  hearty  goodwill 

Whatever  he  now  might  enjoin  to  fulfil, 

And  promised  the  lady  a  thorough  frightening. 

And  so,  just  giving  her  a  glimpse 

Of  a  purse,  with  the  air  of  a  man  who  imps 

The  wing  of  the  hawk  that  shall  fetch  the  hernshaw, 

He  bade  me  take  the  Gypsy  mother 

And  set  her  telling  some  story  or  other 

Of  hill  or  dale,  oak-wood  or  fernshaw, 

To  wile  away  a  weary  hour 

For  the  lady  left  alone  in  her  bower, 

Whose  mind  and  body  craved  exertion 

And  yet  shrank  from  all  better  diversion. 

XIV. 

Then  clapping  heel  to  his  horse,  the  mere  curveter, 

Out  rode  the  Duke,  and  after  his  hollo 

Horses  and  hounds  swept,  huntsman  and  servitor, 

And  back  I  turned  and  bade  the  crone  follow. 

And  what  makes  me  confident  what  's  to  be  told  you 

Had  all  along  been  of  this  crone's  devising, 

Is,  that,  on  looking  round  sharpl}',  behold  you, 

There  was  a  novelty  quick  as  surprising : 

For  first,  she  had  shot  up  a  full  head  in  stature, 

And  her  step  kept  pace  with  mine  nor  faltered, 

As  if  age  had  foregone  its  usurpature, 

And  the  ignoble  mien  was  wholly  altered, 

And  the  face  looked  quite  of  another  nature, 

And  the  change  reached  too,  whatever  the  change  meant, 

Her  shaggy  wolf-skin  cloak's  arrangement: 

For  where  its  tatters  hung  loose  like  sedges, 

Gold  coins  were  glittering  on  the  edges, 

Like  the  band-roll  strung  with  tomans 

Which  proves  the  veil  a  Persian  woman's: 


THE  FLIGHT  OF  TEE  DUCHESS.  39 

And  under  her  brow,  like  a  snail's  horns  newly 

Come  out  as  after  the  rain  he  paces, 

Two  unmistakable  eye-points  duly 

Live  and  aware  looked  out  of  their  places. 

So,  we  went  and  found  Jacynth  at  the  entry 

Of  the  lady's  chamber  standing  sentry; 

I  told  the  command  and  produced  my  companion, 

And  Jacynth  rejoiced  to  admit  any  one, 

For  since  last  night,  by  the  same  token, 

Not  a  single  word  had  the  lady  spoken: 

They  went  in  both  to  the  presence  together, 

While  I  in  the  balcony  watched  the  weather. 

xv. 

And  now,  what  took  place  at  the  very  first  of  all, 

I  cannot  tell,  as  I  never  could  learn  it: 

Jacynth  constantly  wished  a  curse  to  fall 

On  that  little  head  of  hers  and  burn  it 

If  she  knew  how  she  came  to  drop  so  soundly 

Asleep  of  a  sudden,  and  there  continue 

The  whole  time,  sleeping  as  profoundly 

As  one  of  the  boars  my  father  would  pin  you 

'Twixt  the  eye_s  where  life  holds  garrison, 

— Jacynth  forgive  me  the  comparison, 

But  where  I  begin  my  own  narration 

Is  a  little  after  I  took  my  station 

To  breathe  the  fresh  air  from  the  balcony, 

And,  having  in  those  days  a  falcon  eye, 

To  follow  the  hunt  thro'  the  open  country, 

From  where  the  bushes  thinlier  crested 

The  hillocks,  to  a  plain  where  's  not  one  tree. 

When,  in  a  moment,  my  ear  was  arrested 

By — was  it  singing,  or  was  it  saying, 

Or  a  strange  musical  instrument  playing 

In  the  chamber? — and  to  be  certain 

I  pushed  the  lattice,  pulled  the  curtain, 


40  THE  FLIGHT  OF  THE  DUCHESS. 

And  there  lay  Jacynth  asleep, 

Yet  as  if  a  watch  she  tried  to  keep, 

In  a  rosy  sleep  along  the  floor 

With  her  head  against  the  door; 

While  in  the  midst,  on  the  seat  of  state, 

Was  a  queen — the  Gypsy  woman  late, 

With  head  and  face  downbent 

On  the  lady's  head  and  face  intent: 

For,  coiled  at  her  feet  like  a  child  at  ease, 

The  lady  sat  between  her  knees, 

And  o'er  them  the  lady's  clasped  hands  met, 

And  on  those  hands  her  chin  was  set, 

And  her  upturned  face  met  the  face  of  the  crone 

Wherein  the  eyes  had  grown  and  grown 

As  if  she  could  double  and  quadruple 

At  pleasure  the  play  of  either  pupil 

— Very  like,  by  her  hands'  slow  fanning, 

As  up  and  down  like  a  gor-crow's  flappers 

They  moved  to  measure,  or  bell  clappers. 

I  said,  "Is  it  blessing,  is  it  banning, 

Do  they  applaud  you  or  burlesque  you — 

Those  hands  and  fingers  with  no  flesh  on?" 

But,  just  as  I  thought  to  spring  in  to  the  rescue, 

At  once  I  was  stopped  by  the  lady's  expression: 

For  it  was  life  her  eyes  were  drinking 

From  the  crone's  wide  pair  above  unwinking, 

— Life's  pure  fire,  received  without  shrinking, 

Into  the  heart  and  breast  whose  heaving 

Told  you  no  single  drop  they  were  leaving, 

— Life,  that  filling  her,  passed  redundant 

Into  her  very  hair,  back  swerving 

Over  each  shoulder,  loose  and  abundant, 

As  her  head  thrown  back  showed  the  white  throat  curving; 

And  the  very  tresses  shared  in  the  pleasure, 

Moving  to  the  mystic  measure, 


THE  FLIGHT  OF  THE  DUCHESS.  41 

Bounding  as  the  bosom  bounded. 

I  stopped  short,  more  and  more  confounded, 

As  still  her  cheeks  burned  and  eyes  glistened, 

As  she  listened  and  she  listened: 

When  all  at  once  a  hand  detained  me, 

The  selfsame  contagion  gained  me, 

And  I  kept  time  to  the  wondrous  chime, 

Making  out  words  and  prose  and  rhyme, 

Till  it  seemed  that  the  music  furled 

Its  wings  like  a  task  fulfilled,  and  dropped 

From  under  the  words  it  first  had  propped, 

And  left  them  midway  in  the  world, 

Word  took  word  as  hand  takes  hand, 

I  could  hear  at  last,  and  understand, 

And  when  I  held  the  unbroken  thread, 

The  Gypsy  said: — 

"And  so  at  last  we  find  my  tribe. 

And  so  I  set  thee  in  the  midst, 

And  to  one  and  all  of  them  describe 

What  thou  saidst  and  what  thou  didst, 

Our  long  and  terrible  journey  through, 

And  all  thou  art  ready  to  say  and  do 

In  the  trials  that  remain: 

I  trace  them  the  vein  and  the  other  vein 

That  meet  on  thy  brow  and  part  again, 

Making  our  rapid  mystic  mark; 

And  I  bid  my  people  prove  and  probe 

Each  eye's  profound  and  glorious  globe 

Till  they  detect  the  kindred  spark 

In  those  depths  so  dear  and  dark, 

Like  the  spots  that  snap  and  burst  and  flee, 

Circling  over  the  midnight  sea. 

And  on  that  round  young  cheek  of  thine 

I  make  them  recognize  the  tinge, 


42  THE  FLIGHT  OF  THE  DUCHESS. 

As  when  of  the  costly  scarlet  wine 

They  drip  so  much  as  will  impinge 

And  spread  in  a  thinnest  scale  afloat 

One  thick  gold  drop  from  the  olive's  coat 

Over  a  silver  plate  whose  sheen 

Still  thro'  the  mixture  shall  be  seen. 

For  so  I  prove  thee,  to  one  and  all, 

Fit,  when  my  people  ope  their  breast, 

To  see  the  sign,  and  hear  the  call, 

And  take  the  vow,  and  stand  the  test 

Which  adds  one  more  child  to  the  rest — 

When  the  breast  is  bare  and  the  arms  are  wide, 

And  the  world  is  left  outside. 

For  there  is  probation  to  decree, 

And  many  and  long  must  the  trials  be 

Thou  shalt  victoriously  endure, 

If  that  brow  is  true  and  those  eyes  are  sure; 

Like  a  jewel-finder's  fierce  assay 

Of  the  prize  he  dug  from  its  mountain  tomb, — 

Let  once  the  vindicating  ray 

Leap  out  amid  the  anxious  gloom, 

Arid  steel  and  fire  have  done  their  part, 

And  the  prize  falls  on  its  finder's  heart; 

So,  trial  after  trial  past, 

Wilt  thou  fall  at  the  very  last 

Breathless,  half  in  trance 

With  the  thrill  of  the  great  deliverance, 

Into  our  arms  for  evermore; 

And  thou  shalt  know,  those  arms  once  curled 

About  thee,  what  we  knew  before, 

How  love  is  the-only  good  in  the  world. 

Henceforth,  be  loved  as  heart  can  love, 

Or  brain  devise,  or  hand  approve! 

Stand  up,  look  below, 

It  is  our  life  at  thy  feet  we  throw 


THE  FLIGHT  OF  THE  DUCHESS.  43 

To  step  with  into  light  and  joy ; 

Not  a  power  of  life  but  we  employ 

To  satisfy  thy  nature's  want ; 

Art  thou  the  tree  that  props  the  plant, 

Or  the  climbing  plant  that  seeks  the  tree — 

Canst  thou  help  us,  must  we  help  thee? 

If  any  two  creatures  grew  into  one, 

They  would  do  more  than  the  world  has  done; 

Though  each  apart  were  never  so  weak, 

Ye  vainly  through  the  world  should  seek 

For  the  knowledge  and  the  might 

Which  in  such  union  grew  their  right : 

So,  to  approach  at  least  that  end, 

And  blend, — as  much  as  may  be,  blend 

Thee  with  us  or  us  with  thee, — 

As  climbing  plant  or  propping  tree, 

Shall  some  one  deck  thee  over  and  down, 

Up  and  about,  with  blossoms  and  leaves? 

Fix  his  heart's  fruit  for  thy  garland  crown, 

Cling  with  his  soul  as  the  gourd-vine  cleaves, 

Die  on  thy  boughs  and  disappear 

"While  not  a  leaf  of  thine  is  sere? 

Or  is  the  other  fate  in  store, 

And  art  thou  fitted  to  adore, 

To  give  thy  wondrous  self  away, 

And  take  a  stronger  nature's  sway? 

I  foresee  and  could  foretell 

Thy  future  portion,  sure  and  well : 

But  those  passionate  eyes  speak  true,  speak  true, 

Let  them  say  what  thou  shalt  do! 

Only  be  sure  thy  daily  life, 

In  its  peace  or  in  its  strife, 

Never  shall  be  unobserved; 

We  pursue  thy  whole  career, 

And  hope  for  it,  or  doubt,  or  fear, — 

Lo,  hast  thou  kept  thv  natb  or  swerved, 


44  THE  FLIGHT  OF  THE  DUCUESS. 

We  are  beside  thee  in  all  thy  ways, 

With  our  blame,  with  our  praise, 

Our  shame  to  feel,  our  pride  to  show, 

Glad,  angry — but  indifferent,  no! 

Whether  it  be  thy  lot  to  go, 

For  the  good  of  us  all,  where  the  haters  meet 

In  the  crowded  city's  horrible  street; 

Or  thou  step  alone  through  the  morass 

Where  never  sound  yet  was 

Save  the  dry  quick  clap  of  the  stork's  bill, 

For  the  air  is  still,  and  the  water  still, 

When  the  blue  breast  of  the  dipping  coo  t 

Dives  under,  and  all  is  mute. 

So  at  the  last  shall  come  old  age, 

Decrepit  as  befits  that  stage ; 

How  else  wouldst  thou  retire  apart 

With  the  hoarded  memories  of  thy  heart 

And  gather  all  to  the  very  least 

Of  the  fragments  of  life's  earlier  feast, 

Let  fall  through  eagerness  to  find 

The  crowning  dainties  yet  behind? 

Ponder  on  the  entire  past 

Laid  together  thus  at  last, 

When  the  twilight  helps  to  fuse 

The  first  fresh  with  the  faded  hues, 

And  the  outline  of  the  whole, 

As  round  eve's  shades  their  framework  roll, 

Grandly  fronts  for  once  thy  soul. 

And  then  as,  'mid  the  dark,  a  gleam 

Of  yet  another  morning  breaks, 

And  like  the  hand  which  ends  a  dream, 

Death,  with  the  might  of  his  sunbeam, 

Touches  the  flesh  and  the  soul  awakes, 

Then " 


THE  FLIGHT  OF  THE  D  UCHESS.  45 

Ay,  then  indeed  something  would  happen! 

But  what?     For  here  her  voice  changed  like  a  bird's; 

There  grew  more  of  the  music  and  less  of  the  words; 

Had  Jacynth  only  been  by  me  to  clap  pen 

To  paper  and  put  you  down  every  syllable 

With  those  clever  clerkly  fingers, 

All  I  've  forgotten  as  well  as  what  lingers 

In  this  old  brain  of  mine  that  's  but  ill  able 

To  give  you  even  this  poor  version 

Of  the  speech  I  spoil,  as  it  were,  with  stammering! 

— More  fault  of  those  who  had  the  hammering 

Of  prosody  into  me  and  syntax, 

And  did  it,  not  with  hobnails  but  tintacks! 

But  to  return  from  this  excursion, — 

Just,  do  you  mark,  when  the  song  was  sweetest, 

The  peace  most  deep  and  the  charm  completest, 

There  came,  shall  I  say,  a  snap — 

And  the  charm  vanished ! 

And  my  sense  returned,  so  strangely  banished, 

And,  starting  as  from  a  nap, 

I  knew  the  crone  was  bewitching  my  lady, 

With  Jacynth  asleep ;  and  but  one  spring  made  I 

Down  from  the  casement,  round  to  the  portal, 

Another  minute  and  I  had  entered, — 

When  the  door  opened,  and  more  than  mortal 

Stood,  with  a  face  where  to  my  mind  centred 

All  beauties  I  ever  saw  or  shall  see, 

The  Duchess:  I  stopped  as  if  struck  by  palsy. 

She  was  so  different,  happy  and  beautiful, 

I  felt  at  once  that  all  was  best, 

And  that  I  had  nothing  to  do,  for  the  rest, 

But  wait  her  commands,  obey  and  be  dutiful. 

Not  that,  in  fact,  there  was  any  commanding; 

I  saw  the  glory  of  her  eye, 

And  the  brow's  height  and  the  breast's  expanding, 

And  I  was  hers  to  live  or  to  die. 


46  THE  FLIGHT  OF  THE  DUCHESS. 

As  for  finding  what  she  wanted. 

You  know  God  Almighty  granted 

Such  little  signs  should  serve  wild  creatures 

To  tell  one  another  all  their  desires, 

So  that  each  knows  what  his  friend  requires, 

And  does  its  bidding  without  teachers. 

I  preceded  her;  the  crone 

Followed  silent  and  alone; 

I  spoke  to  her,  but  she  merely  jabbered 

In  the  old  style;  both  her  eyes  had  slunk 

Back  to  their  pits;  her  stature  shrunk; 

In  short,  the  soul  in  its  body  sunk 

Like  a  blade  sent  home  to  its  scabbard. 

We  descended,  I  preceding; 

Crossed  the  court  with  nobody  heeding; 

All  the  world  was  at  the  chase, 

The  court-yard  like  a  desert  place, 

The  stable  emptied  of  its  small  fry; 

I  saddled  myself  the  very  palfrey 

I  remember  patting  while  it  carried  her, 

The  day  she  arrived  and  the  Duke  married  her. 

And,  do  you  know,  though  it  's  easy  deceiving 

One's  self  in  such  matters,  I  can't  help  believing 

The  lady  had  not  forgotten  it  either, 

And  knew  the  poor  devil  so  much  beneath  her 

Would  have  been  only  too  glad,  for  her  service, 

Ho  dance  on  hot  ploughshares  like  a  Tuike  dervise, 

But,  unable  to  pay  proper  duty  where  owing  it, 

Was  reduced  to  that  pitiful  method  of  showing  it. 

For  though,  the  moment  I  began  setting 

His  saddle  on  my  own  nag  of  Berold's  begetting, 

(Not  that  I  meant  to  be  obtrusive) 

She  stopped  me,  while  his  rug  was  shifting, 

By  a  single  rapid  finger's  lifting, 

And,  with  a  gesture  kind  but  conclusive, 


THE  FLIGHT  OF  THE  DUCHESS.  47 

And  a  little  shake  of  the  head,  refused  me, — 

I  say,  although  she  never  used  me, 

Yet  when  she  was  mounted,  the  Gypsy  behind  her, 

And  I  ventured  to  remind  her, 

I  suppose  with  a  voice  of  less  steadiness 

Than  usual,  for  my  feeling  exceeded  me, 

— Something  to  the  effect  that  I  was  in  readiness 

Whenever  God  should  please  she  needed  me, — 

Then,  do  you  know,  her  face  looked  down  on  me 

With  a  look  that  placed  a  crown  on  me, 

And  she  felt  in  her  bosom, — mark,  her  bosom — 

And,  as  a  flower-tree  drops  its  blossom, 

Dropped  me    .     .     .     ah,  had  it  been  a  purse 

Of  silver,  my  friend,  or  gold  that  's  worse, 

Why,  you  see,  as  soon  as  I  found  myself 

So  understood, — that  a  true  heart  so  may  gain 

Such  a  reward, — I  should  have  gone  home  again, 

Kissed  Jacynth,  and  soberly  drowned  myself! 

It  was  a  little  plait  of  hair 

Such  as  friends  in  a  convent  make 

To  wear,  each  for  the  other's  sake, — 

This,  see,  which  at  my  breast  I  wear, 

Ever  did  (rather  to  Jacynth's  grudgment), 

And  ever  shall,  till  the  Day  of  Judgment. 

And  then, — and  then, — to  cut  short, — this  is  idle, 

These  are  feelings  it  is  not  good  to  foster, — 

I  pushed  the  gate  wide,  she  shook  the  bridle, 

And  the  palfrey  bounded, — and  so  we  lost  her. 

XVI. 

When  the  liquor  's  out  why  clink  the  cannikin? 

I  did  think  to  describe  you  the  panic  in 

The  redoubtable  breast  of  our  master  the  mannikin. 

And  what  was  the  pitch  of  his  mother's  yellowness, 

How  she  turned  as  a  shark  to  snap  the  spare-rib 

Clean  off,  sailors  say,  from  a  pearl-diving  Carib, 

When  she  heard,  what  she  called  the  flight  of  the  feloness 


48  THE  FLIGHT  OF  THE  DUCHESS. 

— But  it  seems  such  child's  play, 

What  they  said  and  did  with  the  lady  away! 

And  to  dance  on,  when  we  've  lost  the  music, 

Always  made  me — and  no  doubt  makes  you — sick. 

Nay,  to  my  mind,  the  world's  face  looked  so  stern 

As  that  sweet  form  disappeared  through  the  postern, 

She  that  kept  it  in  constant  good  humor, 

It  ought  to  have  stopped ;  there  seemed  nothing  to  do  mora 

But  the  world  thought  otherwise  and  went  on, 

And  my  head  's  one  that  its  spite  was  spent  on: 

Thirty  years  are  fled  since  that  morning, 

And  with  them  all  my  head's  adorning. 

Nor  did  the  old  Duchess  die  outright, 

As  you  expect,  of  suppressed  spite, 

The  natural  end  of  every  adder 

Not  suffered  to  empty  its  poison-bladder: 

But  she  and  her  son  agreed,  I  take  it, 

That  no  one  should  touch  on  the  story  to  wake  it, 

For  the  wound  in  the  Duke's  pride  rankled  fiery; 

So,  they  made  no  search  and  small  inquiry: 

And  when  fresh  Gypsies  have  paid  us  a  visit,  I  've 

Noticed  the  couple  were  never  inquisitive, 

But  told  them  they  're  folks  the  Duke  do  n't  want  here, 

And  bade  them  make  haste  and  cross  the  frontier. 

Brief,  the  Duchess  was  gone  and  the  Duke  was  glad  of  it, 

And  the  old  one  was  in  the  young  one's  stead, 

And  took,  in  her  place,  the  household's  head, 

And  a  blessed  time  the  household  had  of  it ! 

And  were  I  not,  as  a  man  may  say,  cautious 

How  I  trench,  more  than  needs,  on  the  nauseous, 

I  could  favor  you  with  sundry  touches 

Of  the  paint-smutches  with  which  the  Duchess 

Heightened  the  mellowness  of  her  cheek's  yellowness 

(To  get  on  faster)  until  at  last  her 

Cheek  grew  to  be  one  master-plaster 

Of  mucus  and  fucus  from  mere  use  of  ceruse; 


THE  FLIGHT  OF  THE  D  UCHES8.  49 

In  short,  she  grew  from  scalp  to  udder 
Just  the  object  to  make  you  shudder. 

XVII. 

You  're  my  friend — 

What  a  thing  friendship  is,  world  without  end! 

How  it  gives  the  heart  and  soul  a  stir-up 

As  if  somebody  broached  you  a  glorious  runlet, 

And  poured  out,  all  lovelily,  sparklingly,  sunlit, 

Our  green  Moldavia,  the  streaky  syrup, 

Cotnar  as  old  as  the  time  of  the  Druids — 

Friendship  may  match  with  that  monarch  of  fluids; 

Each  supples  a  dry  brain,  fills  you  its  ins-and-outs, 

Gives  your  life's  hour-glass  a  shake  when  the  thin  sand 

doubts 

Whether  to  run  on  or  stop  short,  and  guarantees 
Age  is  not  all  made  of  stark  sloth  and  arrant  ease. 
I  have  seen  my  little  lady  once  more, 
Jacynth,  the  Gypsy,  Berold,  and  the  rest  of  it, 
For  to  me  spoke  the  Duke,  as  I  told  you  before; 
I  always  wanted  to  make  a  clean  breast  of  it : 
And  now  it  is  made — why,  my  heart's  blood,  that  went 

trickle, 

Trickle,  but  anon,  in  such  muddy  driblets, 
Is  pumped  up  brisk  now,  through  the  main  ventricle, 
And  genially  floats  me  about  the  giblets. 
I  '11  tell  you  what  I  intend  to  do: 
I  must  see  this  fellow  his  sad  life  through — 
He  is  our  Duke,  after  all, 
And  I,  as  he  says,  but  a  serf  and  thrall. 
My  father  was  born  here,  and  I  inherit 
His  fame,  a  chain  he  bound  his  son  with ; 
Could  I  pay  in  a  lump  I  should  prefer  it, 
But  there  's  no  mine  to  blow  up  and  get  done  with : 
So,  I  must  stay  till  the  end  of  the  chapter. 
For,  as  to  our  middle-age-manners-adapter, 


50  THE  FLIGHT  OF  THE  DUCHESS. 

Be  it  a  thing  to  be  glad  on  or  sorry  on, 

Some  day  or  other,  his  head  in  a  morion 

And  breast  in  a  hauberk,  his  heels  he  '11  kick  up, 

Slain  by  an  onslaught  fierce  of  hiccup. 

And  then,  when  red  doth  the  sword  of  our  Duke  rust, 

And  its  leathern  sheath  lie  o'ergrown  with  a  blue  crust, 

Then  I  shall  scrape  together  my  earnings; 

For,  you  see,  in  the  churchyard  Jacynth  reposes, 

And  our  children  all  went  the  way  of  the  roses: 

It 's  a  long  lane  that  knows  no  turnings. 

One  needs  but  little  tackle  to  travel  in; 

So,  just  one  stout  cloak  shall  I  indue: 

And  for  a  staff,  what  beats  the  javelin 

With  which  his  boars  my  father  pinned  you? 

And  then,  for  a  purpose  you  shall  hear  presently, 

Taking  some  Cotnar,  a  tight  plump  skinful, 

I  shall  go  journeying,  who  but  I,  pleasantly! 

Sorrow  is  vain  and  despondency  sinful. 

What  '&  a  man's  age?     He  must  hurry  more,  that  's  all; 

Cram  in  a  day,  what  his  youth  took  a  year  to  hold: 

When  we  mind  labor,  then  only,  we  're  too  old — 

What  age  had  Methusalem  when  he  begat  Saul? 

And  at  last,  as  its  haven  some  buffeted  ship  sees, 

(Come  all  the  way  from  the  north-parts  with  sperm  oil) 

I  hope  to  get  safely  out  of  the  turmoil 

And  arrive  one  day  at  the  land  of  the  Gypsies, 

And  find  my  lady,  or  hear  the  last  news  of  her 

From  some  old  thief  and  son  of  Lucifer, 

His  forehead  chapleted  green  with  wreathy  hop, 

Sunburned  all  over  like  an  ^Ethiop. 

And  when  my  Cotnar  begins  to  operate 

And  the  tongue  of  the  rogue  to  run  at  a  proper  rate, 

And  our  wine-skin,  tight  once,  shows  each  flaccid  dent, 

I  shall  drop  in  with — as  if  by  accident — 

"You  never  knew  then,  how  it  all  ended, 


80NQ  FROM  "  PIPPA  PASSES."  51 

What  fortune  good  or  bad  attended 

The  little  lady  your  Queen  befriended?" 

— And  when  that  's  told  me,  what  's  remaining? 

This  world  's  too  hard  for  my  explaining. 

The  same  wise  judge  of  matters  equine 

Who  still  preferred  some  slim  four-year-old 

To  the  big-boned  stock  of  mighty  Berold, 

And,  for  strong  Cotnar,  drank  French  weak  wine, 

He  also  must  be  such  a  lady's  scorner! 

Smooth  Jacob  still  robs  homely  Esau: 

Now  up,  now  down,  the  world  's  one  see-saw. 

— So,  I  shall  find  out  some  snug  corner 

Under  a  hedge,  like  Orson  the  wood-knight, 

Turn  myself  round  and  bid  the  world  good  night; 

And  sleep  a  sound  sleep  till  the  trumpet's  blowing 

W'akes  me  (unless  priests  cheat  us  laymen) 

To  a  world  where  will  be  no  further  throwing 

Pearls  before  swine  that  can  't  value  them.     Amen! 


SONG  FKOM  "PIPPA  PASSES." 

THE  year  's  at  the  spring, 
And  day  's  at  the  morn; 
Morning  's  at  seven; 
The  hill-side  's  dew-pearled; 
The  lark  's  on  the  wing; 
The  snail  's  on  the  thorn; 
God  's  in  His  heaven — 
All  's  right  with  the  world. 


52          "HOW  THEY  BRO UGHT  THE  GOOD  NEWS." 

"HOW  THEY  BROUGHT  THE  GOOD  NEWS  FROM 

GHENT  TO  AIX." 

[16-.] 

i. 

I  SPRANG  to  the  stirrup,  and  Joris,  and  he; 

I  galloped,  Dirck  galloped,  we  galloped  all  three; 

"Good  speed!"  cried  the  watch,  as  the  gate-bolts  undrew; 

"Speed!"  echoed  the  wall  to  us  galloping  through; 

Behind  shut  the  postern,  the  lights  sank  to  rest, 

And  into  the  midnight  we  galloped  abreast. 

ii. 

Not  a  word  to  each  other;  we  kept  the  great  pace 
Neck  by  neck,  stride  by  stride,  never  changing  our  place; 
I  turned  in  my  saddle  and  made  its  girths  tight, 
Then  shortened  each  stirrup,  and  set  the  pique  right, 
Rebuckled  the  cheek-strap,  chained  slacker  the  bit, 
Nor  galloped  less  steadily  Roland  a  whit. 

in. 

'T  was  moonset  at  starting;  but  while  we  drew  near 

Lokeren,  the  cocks  crew  and  twilight  dawned  clear; 

At  Boom,  a  great  yellow  star  came  out  to  see; 

At  Diiffeld,  't  was  morning  as  plain  as  could  be; 

And  from   Mecheln  church-steeple   we  heard    the  half 

chime, 
So,  Joris  broke  silence  with,  "Yet  there  is  time!" 

IV. 

At  Aershot,  up  leaped  of  a  sudden  the  sun, 
And  against  him  the  cattle  stood  black  every  one, 
To  stare  thro'  the  mist  at  us  galloping  past, 
And  I  saw  my  stout  galloper  Roland  at  last, 


"HOW  THEY  BROUGHT  THE  GOOD  NEWS."        53 

With  resolute  shoulders,  each  butting  away 
The  haze,  as  some  bluff  river  headland  its  spray: 

v. 

And  his  low  head  and  crest,  just  one  sharp  ear  bent  back 
For  my  voice,  and  the  other  pricked  out  on  his  track; 
And  one  eye's  black  intelligence, — ever  that  glance 
O'er  its  white  edge  at  me,  his  own  master,  askance  ! 
And  the  thick  heavy  spume-flakes  which  aye  and  anon 
His  fierce  lips  shook  upwards  in  galloping  on. 

VI. 

By  Hasselt,  Dirck  groaned;  and  cried  Joris  "Stay  spur! 
Your  Eoos  galloped  bravely,  the  fault  's  not  in  her, 
We  '11  remember  at  Aix" — for  one  heard  the  quick  wheeze 
Of  her  chest,  saw  the  stretched  neck  and  staggering  knees, 
And  sunk  tail,  and  horrible  heave  of  the  flank, 
As  down  on  her  haunches  she  shuddered  and  sank. 

VII. 

So,  we  were  left  galloping,  Joris  and  I, 

Past  Looz  and  past  Tongres,  no  cloud  in  the  sky; 

The  broad  sun  above  laughed  a  pitiless  laugh, 

'Neath  our  feet  broke  the  brittle  bright  stubble  like  chaff; 

Till  over  by  Dalhem  a  dome-spire  sprang  white, 

And  "Gallop,"  gasped  Joris,  "for  Aix  is  in  sight! 

VIII. 

"How  they  '11  greet  us!" — and  all  in  a  moment  his  roan 
Boiled  neck  and  croup  over,  lay  dead  as  a  stone; 
And  there  was  my  Roland  to  bear  the  whole  weight 
Of  the  news  which  alone  could  save  Aix  from  her  fate, 
With  his  nostrils  like  pits  full  of  blood  to  the  brim, 
And  with  circles  of  red  for  his  eye-sockets'  rim. 


54  SONG  FROM  "PARACELSUS." 

IX. 

Then  I  cast  loose  my  buffcoat,  each  holster  let  fall, 
Shook  off  both  my  jack-boots,  let  go  belt  and  all, 
Stood  up  in  the  stirrup,  leaned,  patted  his  ear, 
Called  my  Eoland  his  pet-name,  my  horse  without  peer; 
Clapped  my  hands,  laughed  and  sang,  any  noise,  bad  or 

good, 
Till  at  length  into  Aix  Roland  galloped  and  stood. 

x. 

And  all  I  remember  is,  friends  flocking  round 
As  I  sat  with  his  head  'twixt  my  knees  on  the  ground; 
And  no  voice  but  was  praising  this  Eoland  of  mine, 
As  I  poured  down  his  throat  our  last  measure  of  wine, 
Which  (the  burgesses  voted  by  common  consent) 
Was  no  more  than  his  due  who  brought  good  news  from 
Ghent. 


SONG  FROM  "PARACELSUS. " 
i. 

HEAP  cassia,  sandal-buds  and  stripes 

Of  labdanum,  and  aloe-balls, 
Smeared  with  dull  nard  an  Indian  wipes 
From  out  her  hair:  such  balsam  falls 
Down  sea-side  mountain  pedestals, 
From  tree-tops  where  tired  winds  are  fain, 
Spent  with  the  vast  and  howling  main, 
To  treasure  half  their  island  gain. 

ii. 

And  strew  faint  sweetness  from  some  old 
Egyptian's  fine  worm-eaten  shroud 

Which  breaks  to  dust  when  once  unrolled 
Or  shredded  perfume,  like  a  cloud 
From  closet  long  to  quiet  vowed, 


THROUGH  THE  METIDJA.  55 

With  mothed  and  dropping  arras  hung, 
Mouldering  her  lute  and  books  among, 
As  when  a  queen,  long  dead,  was  young. 


THROUGH  THE  METIDJA  TO  ABD-EL-KADEE. 

1842. 
i. 

As  I  ride,  as  I  ride, 

"With  a  full  heart  for  my  guide, 

So  its  tide  rocks  my  side, 

As  I  ride,  as  I  ride, 

That,  as  I  were  double-eyed, 

He,  in  whom  our  Tribes  confide, 

Is  descried,  ways  untried 

As  I  ride,  as  I  ride. 

n. 

As  I  ride,  as  I  ride 

To  our  Chief  and  his  Allied, 

Who  dares  chide  my  heart's  pride 

As  I  ride,  as  I  ride? 

Or  are  witnesses  denied — 

Through  the  desert  waste  and  wide 

Do  I  glide  unespied 

As  I  ride,  as  I  ride? 

in. 

As  I  ride,  as  I  ride, 
When  an  inner  voice  has  cried, 
The  sands  slide,  nor  abide 
(As  I  ride,  as  I  ride) 


5C  INCIDENT  OF  THE  FRENCH  CAMP. 

O'er  each  visioned  homicide 
That  came  vaunting  (has  he  lied?) 
To  reside — where  he  died, 
As  I  ride,  as  I  ride. 

IV. 

As  I  ride,  as  I  ride, 

Ne'er  has  spur  my  swift  horse  plied, 

Yet  his  hide,  streaked  and  pied, 

As  I  ride,  as  I  ride, 

Shows  where  sweat  has  sprung  and  dried. 

— Zebra-footed,  ostrich-thighed — • 

How  has  vied  stride  with  stride 

As  I  ride,  as  I  ride ! 

v. 

As  I  ride,  as  I  ride, 

Could  I  loose  what  Fate  has  tied, 

Ere  I  pride,  she  should  hide 

(As  I  ride,  as  I  ride) 

All  that 's  meant  me — satisfied 

When  the  Prophet  and  the  Bride 

Stop  veins  I  'd  have  subside 

As  I  ride,  as  I  ride ! 


i. 

You  know,  we  French  stormed  Eatisbon: 

A  mile  or  so  away 
On  a  little  mound,  Napoleon 

Stood  on  our  storming-day; 
With  neck  out-thrust,  you  fancy  how, 

Legs  wide,  arms  locked  behind, 
As  if  to  balance  the  prone  brow 

Oppressive  with  its  mind. 


INCIDENT  OF  THE  FRENCH  CAMP.  57 

II. 

Just  as  perhaps  he  mused  "My  plans 

That  soar,  to  earth  may  fall, 
Let  once  my  army-leader  Lannes 

Waver  at  yonder  wall, — " 
Out  'twixt  the  battery  smokes  there  flew 

A  rider,  bound  on  bound 
Full-galloping;  nor  bridle  drew 

Until  he  reached  the  mound. 

in. 

Then  off  there  flung  in  smiling  joy, 

And  held  himself  erect 
By  just  his  horse's  mane,  a  boy: 

You  hardly  could  suspect — 
(So  tight  he  kept  his  lips  compressed, 

Scarce  any  blood  came  through) 
You  looked  twice  ere  you  saw  his  breast 

Was  all  but  shot  in  two. 

IV. 

"Well,"  cried  he,  "Emperor,  by  God's  grace 

We  've  got  you  Ratisbon ! 
The  Marshal  's  in  the  market-place, 

And  you  '11  be  there  anon 
To  see  your  flag-bird  flap  his  vans 

Where  I,  to  heart's  desire, 
Perched  him!"     The  chief's  eye  flashed;  his  plans 

Soared  up  again  like  fire. 

v. 

The  chief's  eye  flashed ;  but  presently 

Softened  itself,  as  sheathes 
A  film  the  mother-eagle's  eye 

When  her  bruised  eaglet  breathes; 


58  THE  LOST  LEADER. 

"You  're  wounded!"     "Nay,"  the  soldier's  pride 

Touched  to  the  quick,  he  said : 
"I  'm  killed,  Sire!"     And  his  chief  beside, 

Smiling  the  boy  fell  dead. 


THE  LOST  LEADER. 

i. 
JUST  for  a  handful  of  silver  he  left  us, 

Just  for  a  riband  to  stick  in  his  coat — 
Found  the  one  gift  of  which  fortune  bereft  us, 

Lost  all  the  others,  she  lets  us  devote; 
They,  with  the  gold  to  give,  doled  him  out  silver 

So  much  was  theirs  who  so  little  allowed : 
How  all  our  copper  had  gone  for  his  service! 

Rags — were  they  purple,  his  heart  had  been  proud! 
We  that  had  loved  him  so,  followed  him,  honored  him, 

Lived  in  his  mild  and  magnificent  eye, 
Learned  his  great  language,  caught  his  clear  accents, 

Made  him  our  pattern  to  live  and  to  die! 
Shakespeare  was  of  us,  Milton  was  for  us, 

Burns,  Shelley,  were  with  us, — they  watch  from  their 

graves ! 
He  alone  breaks  from  the  van  and  the  freemen, 

He  alone  sinks  to  the  rear  and  the  slaves! 

ii. 

"We  shall  march  prospering, — not  thro'  his  presence; 

Songs  may  inspirit  us, — not  from  his  lyre; 
Deeds  will  be  done, — while  he  boasts  his  quiescence, 

Still  bidding  crouch  whom  the  rest  bade  aspire; 
Blot  out  his  name,  then,  record  one  lost  soul  more, 

One  task  more  declined,  one  more  footpath  untrod, 
One  more  devil's-triumph  and  sorrow  for  angels, 

One  wrong  more  to  man,  one  more  insult  to  God ! 


IN  A  GONDOLA.  59 

Life's  night  begins:  let  him  never  come  back  to  us! 

There  would  be  doubt,  hesitation  and  pain, 
Forced  praise  on  our  part — the  glimmer  of  twilight, 

Never  glad  confident  morning  again ! 
Best  fight  on  well,  for  we  taught  him — strike  gallantly, 

Menace  our  heart  ere  we  master  his  own ; 
Then  let  him  receive  the  new  knowledge  and  wait  us, 

Pardoned  in  heaven,  the  first  by  the  throne! 


IN  A  GONDOLA. 
He  sings. 

I  SEND  my  heart  up  to  thee,  all  my  heart 

In  this  my  singing. 
For  the  stars  help  me,  and  the  sea  bears  part; 

The  very  night  is  clinging 
Closer  to  Venice'  streets  to  leave  one  space 

Above  me,  whence  thy  face 
May  light  my  joyous  heart  to  thee  its  dwelling-place. 

She  speaks. 

Say  after  me,  and  try  to  say 
My  very  words,  as  if  each  word 
Came  from  you  of  your  own  accord, 
In  your  own  voice,  in  your  own  way: 
"This  woman's  heart  and  soul  and  brain 
Are  mine  as  much  as  this  gold  chain 
She  bids  me  wear;  which"  (say  again) 
"I  choose  to  make  by  cherishing 
A  precious  thing,  or  choose  to  fling 
Over  the  boat-side,  ring  by  ring." 
And  yet  once  more  say  .  .  .  no  word  more! 
Since  words  are  only  words.     Give  o'er! 


60  IN  A  GONDOLA. 

Unless  you  call  me,  all  the  same, 

Familiarly  by  my  pet  name, 

"Which  if  the  Three  should  hear  yon  call, 

And  me  reply  to,  would  proclaim 

At  once  our  secret  to  them  all. 

Ask  of  me,  too,  command  me,  blame — 

Do,  break  down  the  partition-wall 

'Twixt  us,  the  daylight  world  beholds 

Curtained  in  dusk  and  splendid  folds! 

What 's  left  but— all  of  me  to  take? 

I  am  the  Three's:  prevent  them,  slake 

Your  thirst!     'Tis  said,  the  Arab  sage, 

In  practising  with  gems,  can  loose 

Their  subtle  spirit  in  his  cruce 

And  leave  but  ashes:  so,  sweet  image, 

Leave  them  my  ashes  when  thy  use 

Sucks  out  my  soul,  thy  heritage ! 

He  sings. 
i. 

Past  we  glide,  and  past,  and  past ! 

What 's  that  poor  Agnese  doing 
Where  they  make  the  shutters  fast? 

Gray  Zanobi's  just  a-wooing 
To  his  couch  the  purchased  bride: 

Past  we  glide! 

n. 

Past  we  glide,  and  past,  and  past! 

Why  's  the  Pucci  Palace  flaring 
Like  a  beacon  to  the  blast? 

Guests  by  hundreds,  not  one  caring 
If  the  dear  host's  neck  were  wried : 

Past  we  glide! 


IN  A  GONDOLA.  61 

She  sings. 


i. 

The  moth's  kiss,  first! 

Kiss  me  as  if  you  made  believe 

You  were  not  sure,  this  eve, 

How  my  face,  your  flower,  had  pursed 

Its  petals  up;  so,  here  and  there 

You  brush  it,  till  I  grow  aware 

Who  wants  me,  and  wide  ope  I  burst. 

n. 

The  bee's  kiss,  now! 
Kiss  me  as  if  you  entered  gay 
My  heart  at  some  noonday, 
A  bud  that  dares  not  disallow 
The  claim,  so  all  is  rendered  up, 
And  passively  its  shattered  cup 
Over  your  head  to  sleep  I  bow. 

He  sings. 


What  are  we  two? 

I  am  a  Jew, 

And  carry  thee,  farther  than  friends  can  pursue, 

To  a  feast  of  our  tribe ; 

Where  they  need  thee  to  bribe 

The  devil  that  blasts  them  unless  he  imbibe 

Thy  .  .  .  Scatter  the  vision  for  ever!    And  now, 

As  of  old,  I  am  I,  thou  art  thou! 

ii. 

Say  again,  what  we  are? 

The  sprite  of  a  star, 

I  lure  thee  above  where  the  destinies  bar 


62  £V  A  GONDOLA. 

My  plumes  their  full  play 

Till  a  ruddier  ray 

Than  my  pale  one  announce  there  is  withering  away 

Some  .  .  .  Scatter  the  vision  for  ever!    And  now, 

As  of  old,  I  am  I,  thou  art  thou! 

He  muses. 

Oh,  which  were  best,  to  roam  or  rest? 
The  land's  lap  or  the  water's  breast? 
To  sleep  on  yellow  millet-sheaves, 
Or  swim  in  lucid  shadows,  just 
Eluding  water-lily  leaves, 
An  inch  from  Death's  blank  fingers,  thrust 
To  lock  you,  whom  release  he  must; 
Which  life  were  best  on  Summer  eves? 

He  speaks,  musing. 

Lie  back;  could  thought  of  mine  improve  you? 

From  this  shoulder  let  there  spring 

A  wing;  from  this,  another  wing; 

Wings,  not  legs  and  feet,  shall  move  you ! 

Snow-white  must  they  spring,  to  blend 

With  your  flesh,  but  I  intend 

They  shall  deepen  to  the  end, 

Broader,  into  burning  gold, 

Till  both  wings  crescent-wise  enfold 

Your  perfect  self,  from  'neath  your  feet 

To  o'er  your  head,  where,  lo,  they  meet 

As  if  a  million  sword-blades  hurled 

Defiance  from  you  to  the  world! 

Rescue  me  thou,  the  only  real ! 
And  scare  away  this  mad  ideal 
That  came,  nor  motions  to  depart! 
Thanks!     Now,  stay  ever  as  thou  art! 


IN  A  GONDOLA,  63 

Still  he  muses. 
i. 

What  if  the  Three  should  catch  at  last 
Thy  serenader?    While  there  's  cast 
Paul's  cloak  about  my  head,  and  fast 
Gian  pinions  me,  Himself  has  past 
His  stylet  through  my  back;  I  reel; 
And  ...  is  it  thou  I  feel? 

n. 

They  trail  me,  these  three  godless  knaves, 
Past  every  church  that  saints  and  saves, 
Nor  stop  till,  where  the  cold  sea  raves 
By  Lido's  wet  accursed  graves, 
They  scoop  mine,  roll  me  to  its  brink, 
And  ...  on  thy  breast  I  sink ! 

She  replies,  musing. 

Dip  your  arm  o'er  the  boat-side,  elbow-deep, 

As  I  do :  thus :  were  death  so  unlike  sleep, 

Caught  this  way?    Death  's  to  fear  from  flame  or 

steel, 

Or  poison  doubtless;  but  from  water — feel! 
Go  find  the  bottom!    Would  you  stay  me?    There! 
Now  pluck  a  great  blade  of  that  ribbon-grass 
To  plait  in  where  the  foolish  jewel  was, 
I  flung  away :  since  you  have  praised  my  hair, 
'T  is  proper  to  be  choice  in  what  I  wear. 

He  speaks. 

Eow  home?  must  we  row  home?    Too  surely 
Know  I  where  its  front  's  demurely 
Over  the  Guidecca  piled; 
Window  just  with  window  mating, 
Door  on  door  exactly  waiting, 


64  IN  A  GONDOLA. 

All 's  the  set  face  of  a  child : 

But  behind  it,  where  's  a  trace 

Of  the  staidness  and  reserve, 

And  formal  lines  without  a  curve, 

In  the  same  child's  playing-face? 

No  two  windows  look  one  way 

O'er  the  small  sea-water  thread 

Below  them.     Ah,  the  autumn  day 

I,  passing,  saw  you  overhead ! 

First,  out  a  cloud  of  curtain  blew, 

Then  a  sweet  cry,  and  last  came  you — 

To  catch  your  lory  that  must  needs 

Escape  just  then,  of  all  times  then, 

To  peck  a  tall  plant's  fleecy  seeds 

And  make  me  happiest  of  men. 

I  scarce  could  breathe  to  see  you  reach 

So  far  back  o'er  the  balcony, 

To  catch  him  ere  he  climbed  too  high 

Above  you  in  the  Smyrna  peach, 

That  quick  the  round  smooth  cord  of  gold, 

This  coiled  hair  on  your  head,  unrolled, 

Fell  down  you  like  a  gorgeous  snake 

The  Eoman  girls  were  wont,  of  old, 

When  Rome  there  was,  for  coolness*  sake 

To  let  lie  curling  o'er  their  bosoms. 

Dear  lory,  may  his  beak  retain 

Ever  its  delicate  rose  stain, 

As  if  the  wounded  lotus-blossoms 

Had  marked  their  thief  to  know  again! 

Stay  longer  yet,  for  others'  sake 

Than  mine!     What  should  your  chamber  do? 

— With  all  its  rarities  that  ache 

In  silence  while  day  lasts,  but  wake 

At  night-time  and  their  life  renew, 

Suspended  just  to  pleasure  you 


IN  A  GONDOLA.  65 

Who  brought  against  their  will  together 

These  objects,  and,  while  day  lasts,  weave 

Around  them  such  a  magic  tether 

That  dumb  they  look :  your  harp,  believe, 

With  all  the  sensitive  tight  strings 

Which  dare  not  speak,  now  to  itself 

Breathes  slumberously,  as  if  some  elf 

Went  in  and  out  the  chords,  his  wings 

Make  murmur,  wheresoe'er  they  graze, 

As  an  angel  may,  between  the  maze 

Of  midnight  palace-pillars,  on 

And  on,  to  sow  God's  plagues,  have  gone 

Through  guilty  glorious  Babylon. 

And  while  such  murmurs  flow,  the  nymph 

Bends  o'er  the  harp-top  from  her  shell 

As  the  dry  limpet  for  the  lymph 

Come  with  a  tune  he  knows  so  well. 

And  how  your  statues'  hearts  must  swell  1 

And  how  your  pictures  must  descend 

To  see  each  other,  friend  with  friend! 

Oh,  could  you  take  them  by  surprise, 

You  'd  find  Schidone's  eager  Duke 

Doing  the  quaintest  courtesies 

To  that  prim  saint  by  Haste-thee-Luke! 

And,  deeper  into  her  rock  den, 

Bold  Castelfranco's  Magdalen 

You  'd  find  retreated  from  the  ken 

Of  that  robed  counsel-keeping  Ser— 

As  if  the  Tizian  thinks  of  her, 

And  is  not,  rather,  gravely  bent 

On  seeing  for  himself  what  toys 

Are  these,  his  progeny  invent, 

What  litter  now  the  board  employs 

Whereon  he  signed  a  document 

That  got  him  murdered !    Each  enjoys 


IN  A  GONDOLA. 

Its  night  so  well,  you  cannot  break 
The  sport  up:  so,  indeed  must  make 
More  stay  with  me,  for  others'  sake. 

She  speaks. 
i. 

To-morrow,  if  a  harp-string,  say, 
Is  used  to  tie  the  jasmine  back 
That  overfloods  my  room  with  sweets, 
Contrive  your  Zorzi  somehow  meets 
My  Zanze !     If  the  ribbon  's  black, 
The  Three  are  watching:  keep  away! 

ii. 

Your  gondola — let  Zorzi  wreathe 

A  mesh  of  water-weeds  about 

Its  prow,  as  if  he  unaware 

Had  struck  some  quay  or  bridge-foot  stair! 

That  I  may  throw  a  paper  out 

As  you  and  he  go  underneath. 

There  's  Zanze's  vigilant  taper;  safe  are  we. 

Only  one  minute  more  to-night  with  me? 

Resume  your  past  self  of  a  month  ago ! 

Be  you  the  bashful  gallant,  I  will  be 

The  lady  with  the  colder  breast  than  snow. 

Now  bow  you,  as  becomes,  nor  touch  my  hand 

More  than  I  touch  yours  when  I  step  to  land, 

And  say,  "All  thanks,  Siora!"— 

Heart  to  heart 

And  lips  to  lips !    Yet  once  more,  ere  we  part, 
Clasp  me  and  make  me  thine,  as  mine  thou  art! 

He  is  surprised,  and  stabbed. 

It  was  ordained  to  be  so,  sweet ! — and  best 
Comes  now,  beneath  thine  eyes,  upon  thy  breast. 


A  LOVERS'  QUARREL.  67 

Still  kiss  me !     Care  not  for  the  cowards !     Care 
Only  to  put  aside  thy  beauteous  hair 
My  blood  will  hurt !     The  Three,  I  do  not  scorn, 
To  death,  because  they  never  lived:  but  I 
Have  lived  indeed,  and  so — (yet  one  more  kiss) — can 
die! 


A  LOVEKS'  QTJAKKEL. 

i. 

OH,  what  a  dawn  of  day ! 

How  the  March  sun  feels  like  May! 

All  is  blue  again 

After  last  night's  rain, 
And  the  South  dries  the  hawthorn-spray. 

Only,  my  Love  's  away ! 
I  'd  as  lief  that  the  blue  were  gray. 

ii. 

Kunuels,  which  rillets  swell, 
Must  be  dancing  down  the  dell, 

With  a  foaming  head 

On  the  beryl  bed 
Paven  smooth  as  a  hermit's  cell: 

Each  with  a  tale  to  tell, 
Could  my  love  but  attend  as  well. 

in. 

Dearest,  three  months  ago! 

When  we  lived  blocked-up  with  snow, — 

When  the  wind  would  edge 

In  and  in  his  wedge, 
In,  as  far  as  the  point  could  go — 

Not  to  our  ingle,  though, 
Where  we  loved  each  the  other  so! 


68  A  LOVERS'  QUARREL. 

IV. 

Laughs  with  so  little  cause! 
We  devised  games  out  of  straws. 

We  would  try  and  trace 

One  another's  face 
In  the  ash,  as  an  artist  draws; 

Free  on  each  other's  flaws, 
How  we  chattered  like  two  church  daws! 

v. 

What  's  in  the  "Times"?— a  scold 

At  the  Emperor  deep  and  cold ; 
He  has  taken  a  bride 
To  his  gruesome  side, 

That  's  as  fair  as  himself  is  bold : 

There  they  sit  ermine-stoled, 

And  she  powders  her  hair  with  gold. 

VI. 

Fancy  the  Pampas'  sheen ! 

Miles  and  miles  of  gold  and  green 
Where  the  sunflowers  blow 
In  a  solid  glow, 

And  to  break  now  and  then  the  screen- 
Black  neck  and  eyeballs  keen, 

Up  a  wild  horse  leaps  between ! 

VII. 

Try,  will  our  table  turn? 

Lay  your  hands  there  light,  and  yearn 

Till  the  yearning  slips 

Thro'  the  finger-tips 
In  a  fire  which  a  few  discern, 

And  a  very  few  feel  burn, 
And  the  rest,  they  may  live  and  learn! 


A  LOVERS'  QUARREL.  69 

VIII. 

Then  we  would  up  and  pace, 
For  a  change,  about  the  place, 

Each  with  arm  o'er  neck: 

'T  is  our  quarter-deck, 
We  are  seamen  in  woeful  case. 

Help  in  the  ocean-space! 
Or,  if  no  help,  we'll  embrace. 

IX. 

See,  how  she  looks  now,  dressed 
In  a  sledging-cap  and  vest! 

'T  is  a  huge  fur  cloak — 

Like  a  reindeer's  roke 
Falls  the  lappet  along  the  breast: 

Sleeves  for  her  arts  to  rest, 
Or  to  hang,  as  my  Love  likes  best. 

x. 

Teach  me  to  flirt  a  fan 
As  the  Spanish  ladies  can, 

Or  I  tint  your  lip 

With  a  burnt  stick's  tip. 
And  you  turn  into  such  a  man ! 

Just  the  two  spots  that  span 
Half  the  bill  of  the  young  male  swan. 

XI. 

Dearest,  three  months  ago 
When  the  mesmerizer  Snow 

With  his  hand's  first  sweep 

Put  the  earth  to  sleep 
JT  was  a  time  when  the  heart  could  show 

All — how  was  earth  to  know, 
'Neath  the  mute  hand's  to-and-fro? 


70  A  LOVERS'  QUARREL. 

XII. 

Dearest,  three  months  ago 

When  we  loved  each  other  so, 

Lived  and  loved  the  same 
Till  an  evening  came 

When  a  shaft  from  the  devil's  bow 
Pierced  to  our  ingle-glow, 

And  the  friends  were  friend  and  foe ! 

XIII. 

Not  from  the  heart  beneath — 

*T  was  a  bubble  born  of  breath, 
Neither  sneer  nor  vaunt, 
Nor  reproach  nor  taunt. 

See  a  word,  how  it  severeth ! 

Oh,  power  of  life  and  death 

In  the  tongue,  as  the  Preacher  saith! 

XIV. 

Woman,  and  will  you  cast 

For  a  word,  quite  off  at  last 

Me,  your  own,  your  You, — 
Since,  as  truth  is  true, 

I  was  You  all  the  happy  past — 
Me  do  you  leave  aghast 

With  the  memories  We  amassed? 

xv. 

Love,  if  you  knew  the  light 

That  your  soul  casts  in  my  sight, 
How. I  look  to  you 
For  the  pure  and  true, 

And  the  beauteous  and  the  right, — 
Bear  with  a  moment's  spite 

When  a  mere  mote  threats  the  white! 


A  LOVERS'  QUARREL.  71 

XVI. 

What  of  a  hasty  word? 

Is  the  fleshly  heart  not  stirred 

By  a  worm's  pin-prick 

Where  its  roots  are  quick? 
See  the  eye,  by  a  fly's  foot  blurred— 

Ear,  when  a  straw  is  heard 
Scratch  the  brain's  coat  of  curd ! 

XVII. 

Foul  be  the  world  or  fair 
More  or  less,  how  can  I  care? 

'T  is  the  world  the  same 

For  my  praise  or  blame, 
And  endurance  is  easy  there. 

Wrong  in  the  one  thing  rare — 
Oh,  it  is  hard  to  bear! 

XVIII. 

Here  's  the  spring  back  or  close, 
When  the  almond-blossom  blows; 

We  shall  have  the  word 

In  a  minor  third 
There  is  none  but  the  cuckoo  knows: 

Heaps  of  the  guelder-rose! 
I  must  bear  with  it,  I  suppose. 

XIX. 

Could  but  November  come, 
Were  the  noisy  birds  struck  dumb 

At  the  warning  slash 

Of  his  driver's-lash — 
I  would  laugh  like  the  valiant  Thumb 

Facing  the  castle  glum 
And  the  giant's  fee-faw-fum! 


72  EARTH'S  IMMORTALITIES. 

XX. 

Then,  were  the  world  well  stripped 

Of  the  gear  wherein  equipped 
We  can  stand  apart, 
Heart  dispense  with  heart 

In  the  sun,  with  the  flowers  uniiipped, — 
Oh,  the  world's  hangings  ripped, 

We  were  both  in  a  bare-walled  crypt! 

XXI. 

Each  in  the  crypt  would  cry 

"But  one  freezes  here!  and  why? 
When  a  heart,  as  chill, 
At  my  own  would  thrill 

Back  to  life,  and  its  fires  out-fly? 
Heart,  shall  we  live  or  die? 

The  rest    .     .     .     settle  by  and  by!'* 

XXII. 

So,  she  'd  efface  the  score, 

And  forgive  me  as  before. 
It  is  twelve  o'clock: 
I  shall  hear  her  knock 

In  the  worst  of  a  storm's  uproar: 

I  shall  pull  her  through  the  door, 

I  shall  have  her  for  evermore! 


EAKTH'S  IMMOETALITIES. 

FAME. 

SEE,  as  the  prettiest  graves  will  do  in  time, 
Our  poet's  wants  the  freshness  of  its  prime; 
Spire  of  the  sexton's  browsing  horse,  the  sods 
Have  struggled  through  its  binding  osier  rods; 


THE  LAST  RIDE  TOGETHER.  73 

Headstone  and  half -sunk  footstone  lean  awry, 
Wanting  the  brick-work  promised  by-and-by; 
How  the  minute  gray  lichens,  plate  o'er  plate, 
Have  softened  down  the  crisp-cut  name  and  date ! 

LOVE. 

So,  the  year  's  done  with ! 

(Love  me  for  ever!) 
All  March  begun  with, 

April's  endeavor; 
May-wreaths  that  bound  me 

June  needs  must  sever; 
Now  snows  fall  round  me, 

Quenching  June's  fever — 

(Love  me  for  ever!) 


THE  LAST  KIDE  TOGETHER, 
i. 

I  SAID — Then,  dearest,  since  't  is  so, 
Since  now  at  length  my  fate  I  know, 
Since  nothing  all  my  love  avails, 
Since  all,  my  life  seemed  meant  for,  fails, 

Since  this  was  written  and  needs  must  be — 
My  whole  heart  rises  up  to  bless 
Your  name  in  pride  and  thankfulness! 
Take  back  the  hope  you  gave, — I  claim 
Only  a  memory  of  the  same, 
— And  this  beside,  if  you  will  not  blame, 

Your  leave  for  one  more  last  ride  with  me. 

ii. 

My  mistress  bent  that  brow  of  hers;    £~ 
Those  deep  dark  eyes  where  pride  demurs 


74  THE  LAST  RIDE  TOGETHER. 

When  pity  would  be  softening  through, 
Fixed  me  a  breathing-while  or  two 

With  life  or  death  in  the  balance:  right! 
The  blood  replenished  me  again ; 
My  last  thought  was  at  least  not  vain: 
I  and  my  mistress,  side  by  side 
Shall  be  together,  breathe  and  ride, 
So,  one  day  more  am  I  deified. 

Who  knows  but  the  world  may  end  to-night? 

in. 

Hush !  if  you  saw  some  western  cloud 

All  billowy-bosomed,  over-bowed 

By  many  benedictions — sun's 

And  moon's  and  evening-star's  at  once — 

And  so,  you,  looking  and  loving  best, 
Conscious  grew,  your  passion  drew 
Cloud,  sunset,  moonrise,  star-shine  too, 
Down  on  you,  near  and  yet  more  near, 
Till  flesh  must  fade  for- heaven  was  here! — 
Thus  leant  she  and  lingered — joy  and  fear 

Thus  lay  she  a  moment  on  my  breast. 

IV. 

Then  we  began  to  ride.     My  soul 
Smoothed  itself  out,  a  long-cramped  scroll 
Freshening  and  fluttering  in  the  wind. 
Past  hopes  already  lay  behind. 

What  need  to  strive  with  a  life  awry? 
Had  I  said  that,  had  I  done  this, 
So  might  I  gain,  so  might  I  miss. 
Might  she  have  loved  me?  just  as  well 
She  might  have  hated,  who  can  tell! 
Where  had  I  been  now  if  the  worst  befell? 

And  here  we  are  riding,  she  and  I. 


THE  LAST  RIDE  TOGETHER.  75 

T. 

Fail  I  alone,  in  words  and  deeds? 
Why,  all  men  strive  and  who  succeeds? 
We  rode;  it  seemed  my  spirit  flew, 
Saw  other  regions,  cities  new, 

As  the  world  rushed  by  on  either  side. 
I  thought, — All  labor,  yet  no  less 
Bear  up  beneath  their  unsuccess. 
Look  at  the  end  of  work,  contrast 
The  petty  done,  the  undone  vast, 
This  present  of  theirs  with  the  hopeful  past! 

I  hoped  she  would  love  me;  here  we  ride. 

VI. 

What  hand  and  brain  went  ever  paired? 
What  heart  alike  conceived  and  dared? 
What  act  proved  all  its  thought  had  been? 
What  will  but  felt  the  fleshy  screen? 

We  ride  and  I  see  her  bosom  heave. 
There  's  many  a  crown  for  who  can  reach. 
Ten  lines,  a  statesman's  life  in  each ! 
The  flag  stuck  on  a  heap  of  bones, 
A  soldier's  doing!  what  atones? 
They  scratch  his  name  on  the  Abbey-stonea. 

My  riding  is  better,  by  their  leave. 

VII. 

What  does  it  all  mean,  poet?    Well, 
Your  brains  beat  into  rhythm,  you  tell 
What  we  felt  only ;  you  expressed 
You  hold  things  beautiful  the  best, 

And  pace  them  in  rhyme  so,  side  by  side. 
'T  is  something,  nay  't  is  much:  but  then, 
Have  you  yourself  what  's  best  for  men? 


76  THE  LAST  RIDE  TOGETHER. 

Are  you — poor,  sick,  old  ere  your  time — 
Nearer  one  whit  your  own  sublime 
Than  we  who  have  never  turned  a  rhyme? 
Sing,  riding  's  a  joy!     For  me,  I  ride. 

VIII. 

And  you,  great  sculptor — so,  you  gave 
A  score  of  years  to  Art,  her  slave, 
And  that 's  your  Venus,  whence  we  turn 
To  yonder  girl  that  fords  the  burn ! 

You  acquiesce,  and  shall  I  repine? 
What,  man  of  music,  you  grown  gray 
With  notes  and  nothing  else  to  say, 
Is  this  your  sole  praise  from  a  friend, 
"Greatly  his  opera's  strains  intend, 
But  in  music  we  know  how  fashions  end!" 

I  gave  my  youth ;  but  we  ride,  in  fine. 

IX. 

Who  knows  what  's  fit  for  us?    Had  fate 
Proposed  bliss  here  should  sublimate 
My  being — had  I  signed  the  bond — • 
Still  one  must  lead  some  life  beyond, 

Have  a  bliss  to  die  with,  dim-descried. 
This  foot  once  planted  on  the  goal, 
This  glory-garland  round  my  soul, 
Could  I  descry  such?     Try  and  test! 
I  sink  back  shuddering  from  the  quest. 
Earth  being  so  good,  would  heaven  seem  best? 

Now,  heaven  and  she  are  beyond  this  ride. 

x. 

And  yet — she  has  not  spoke  so  long! 
What  if  heaven  be  that,  fair  and  strong 
At  life's  best,  with  our  eyes  upturned 
Whither  life's  flower  is  first  discerned. 


MESMERISM.  77 


We,  fixed  so,  ever  should  so  abide? 
What  if  we  still  ride  on,  we  two, 
With  life  for  ever  old  yet  new, 
Changed  not  in  kind  but  in  degree, 
The  instant  made  eternity, — 
And  heaven  just  prove  that  I  and  she 

Eide,  ride  together,  for  ever  ride? 


MESMEEISM. 
i. 

ALL  I  believed  is  true! 

I  am  able  yet 

All  I  want,  to  get 
By  a  method  as  strange  as  new: 
Dare  I  trust  the  same  to  you? 

ii. 

If  at  night,  when  doors  are  shut, 
And  the  wood-worm  picks, 
And  the  death-watch  ticks, 
And  the  bar  has  a  flag  of  smut, 
And  a  cat 's  in  the  water-butt — 

in. 

And  the  socket  floats  and  flares, 
And  the  house-beams  groan, 
And  a  foot  unknown 
Is  surmised  on  the  garret-stairs, 
And  the  locks  slip  unawares— 

IV. 

And  the  spider,  to  serve  his  ends, 
By  a  sudden  thread, 
Arms  and  legs  outspread, 


MESMERISM. 

On  the  table's  midst  descends, 

Comes  to  find,  God  knows  what  friends !- 

v. 

If  since  eve  drew  in,  I  say, 

I  have  sat  and  brought 

(So  to  speak)  my  thought 
To  bear  on  the  woman  away, 
Till  I  felt  my  hair  turn  gray — 

VI. 

Till  I  seemed  to  have  and  hold, 

In  the  vacancy 

'Twixt  the  wall  and  me 
From  the  hair-plait's  chestnut-gold 
To  the  foot  in  its  muslin  fold — 

VII. 

Have  and  hold,  then  and  there, 

Her,  from  head  to  foot, 

Breathing  and  mute, 
Passive  and  yet  aware, 
In  the  grasp  of  my  steady  stare— 

VIII. 

Hold  and  have,  there  and  then, 

All  her  body  and  soul 

That  completes  my  whole, 
All  that  women  add  to  men, 
In  the  clutch  of  my  steady  ken— 

IX. 

Having  and  holding,  till 

I  imprint  her  fast 

On  the  void  at  last 
As  the  sun  does  whom  he  will 
By  the  calotypist's  skill — 


MESMERISM.  79 

x. 

Then, — if  my  heart's  strength  serve, 

And  through  all  and  each 

Of  the  veils  I  reach 
To  her  soul  and  never  swerve, 
Knitting  an  iron  nerve — 

XI. 

Command  her  soul  to  advance 

And  inform  the  shape 

Which  has  made  escape 
And  before  my  countenance 
Answers  me  glance  for  glance— 

XII. 

I,  still  with  a  gesture  fit 

Of  my  hands  that  best 

Do  my  soul's  behest, 
Pointing  the  power  from  it, 
While  myself  do  steadfast  sit — 

XIII. 

Steadfast  and  still  the  same 

On  my  object  bent, 

While  the  hands  give  vent 
To  my  ardor  and  my  aim 
And  break  into  very  flame — 

XIV. 

Then  I  reach,  I  must  believe, 

Not  her  soul  in  vain, 

For  to  me  again 
It  reaches,  and  past  retrieve 
Is  wound  in  the  toils  I  weave; 


80  MESMERISM. 

XV. 

And  must  follow  as  I  require, 
As  befits  a  thrall, 
Bringing  flesh  and  all, 
Essence  and  earth-attire, 
To  the  source  of  the  tractile  fire: 

XVI. 

Till  the  house  called  hers,  not  mine, 
With  a  growing  weight 
Seems  to  suffocate 
If  she  break  not  its  leaden  line 
And  escape  from  its  close  confine. 

XVII. 

Out  of  doors  into  the  night ! 
On  to  the  maze 
Of  the  wild  wood-ways, 
Not  turning  to  left  nor  right 
From  the  pathway,  blind  with  sight — 

XVIII. 

Making  thro'  rain  and  wind 
O'er  the  broken  shrubs, 
'Twixt  the  stems  and  stubs, 
With  a  still,  composed,  strong  mind, 
Not  a  care  for  the  world  behind — 

XIX. 

Swifter  and  still  more  swift, 
As  the  crowding  peace 
Doth  to  joy  increase 
In  the  wide  blind  eyes  uplift 
Thro'  the  darkness  and  the  drift! 


MESMERISM.  81 

XX. 

While  I — to  the  shape,  I  too 

Feel  my  soul  dilate: 

Nor  a  whit  abate, 
And  relax  not  a  gesture  due, 
As  I  see  my  belief  come  true. 

XXI. 

For,  there !  have  I  drawn  or  no 

Life  to  that  lip? 

Do  my  fingers  dip 
In  a  flame  which  again  they  throw 
On  the  cheek  that  breaks  a-glow? 

XXII. 

Ha!  was  the  hair  so  first? 

What,  unfilleted, 

Made  alive,  and  spread 
Through  the  void  with  a  rich  outburst, 
Chestnut  gold-interspersed? 

XXIII. 

Like  the  doors  of  a  casket-shrine, 

See,  on  either  side, 

Her  two  arms  divide 
Till  the  heart  betwixt  makes  sign, 
"Take  me,  for  I  am  thine!" 

XXIV. 

"Now — now" — the  door  is  heard! 

Hark,  the  stairs!  and  near — • 

Nearer — and  here — • 
"Now!"  and,  at  call  the  third, 
She  enters  without  a  word. 


BY  THE  FIRESIDE. 
XXV. 

On  doth  she  march  and  on 
To  the  fancied  shape; 
It  is,  past  escape, 
Herself,  now:  the  dream  is  done 
And  the  shadow  and  she  are  one. 

XXVI. 

First,  I  will  pray.     Do  Thou 
That  ownest  the  soul, 
Yet  wilt  grant  control 
To  another,  nor  disallow 
For  a  time,  restrain  me  now! 

XXVII. 

I  admonish  me  while  I  may, 
Not  to  squander  guilt, 
Since  require  Thou  wilt 

At  my  hand  its  price  one  day ! 

What  the  price  is,  who  can  say? 


BY  THE  FIKESIDE. 
i. 

How  well  I  know  what  I  mean  to  do 
When  the  long  dark  autumn  evenings  come; 

And  where,  my  soul,  is  thy  pleasant  hue? 
With  the  music  of  all  thy  voices,  dumb 

In  life's  November  too ! 

n. 

I  shall  be  found  by  the  fire,  suppose, 

O'er  a  great  wise  book,  as  beseemeth  age; 

While  the  shutters  flap  as  the  cross-wind  blows, 
And  I  turn  the  page,  and  I  turn  the  page, 

Not  verse  now,  only  prose! 


BY  THE  FIRESIDE.  83 

ill. 

Till  the  young  ones  whisper,  finger  on  lip, 

"There  he  is  at  it,  deep  in  Greek: 
Now  then,  or  never,  out  we  slip 

To  cut  from  the  hazels  by  the  creek 
A  mainmast  for  our  ship!" 

IV. 

I  shall  be  at  it  indeed,  my  friends! 

Greek  puts  already  on  either  side 
Such  a  branch-work  forth  as  soon  extends 

To  a  vista  opening  far  and  wide, 
And  I  pass  out  where  it  ends. 

v. 

The  outside  frame,  like  your  hazel-trees — 
But  the  inside-archway  widens  fast, 

And  a  rarer  sort  succeeds  to  these, 
And  we  slope  to  Italy  at  last 

And  youth,  by  green  degrees. 

VI. 

I  follow  wherever  I  am  led, 

Knowing  so  well  the  leader's  hand: 

Oh  woman-country,  wooed  not  wed, 
Loved  all  the  more  by  earth's  male-lands, 

Laid  to  their  hearts  instead ! 

VII. 

Look  at  the  ruined  chapel  again 
Half-way  up  in  the  Alpine  gorge!  , 

Is  that  a  tower,  I  point  you  plain, 
Or  is  it  a  mill,  or' an  iron  forge 

Breaks  solitude  in  vain? 


84  BY  THE  FIRESIDE. 

VIII. 

A  turn,  and  we  stand  in  the  heart  of  things; 

The  woods  are  round  us,  heaped  and  dim ; 
From  slab  to  slab  how  it  slips  and  springs, 

The  thread  of  water  single  and  slim, 
Through  the  ravage  some  torrent  brings! 

IX. 

Does  it  feed  the  little  lake  below? 

That  speck  of  white  just  on  its  marge 
Is  Pella;  see,  in  the  evening-glow, 

How  sharp  the  silver  spear-heads  charge 
When  Alp  meets  heaven  in  snow ! 

x. 

On  our  other  side  is  the  straight-up  rock; 

And  a  path  is  kept  'twixt  the  gorge  and  it 
By  boulder-stones  where  lichens  mock 

The  marks  on  a  moth,  and  small  ferns  fit 
Their  teeth  to  the  polished  block. 

XI. 

Oh  the  sense  of  the  yellow  mountain-flowers, 
And  thorny  balls,  each  three  in  one, 

The  chestnuts  throw  on  our  path  in  showers! 
For  the  drop  of  the  woodland  fruit 's  begun, 

These  early  November  hours, 

XII. 

That  crimson  the  creeper's  leaf  across 
Like  a  splash  of  blood,  intense,  abrupt, 

O'er  a  shield  else  gold  from  rim  to  boss, 
And  lay  it  for  show  on  the  fairy-cupped 

Elf -needled  mat  of  moss, 


BY  THE  FIRESIDE.  85 


XIII. 


By  the  rose-flesh  mushrooms,  undivulged 
Last  evening — nay,  in  to-day's  first  dew 

Yon  sudden  coral  nipple  bulged, 

Where  a  freaked  fawn-colored  flaky  crew 

Of  toad-stools  peep  indulged. 


XIV. 


And  yonder,  at  foot  of  the  fronting  ridge 
That  takes  the  turn  to  a  range  beyond, 

Is  the  chapel  reached  by  the  one-arched  bridge, 
Where  the  water  is  stopped  in  a  stagnant  pond 

Danced  over  by  the  midge. 


xv. 

The  chapel  and  bridge  are  of  stone  alike, 

Biackish-gray  and  mostly  wet; 
Cut  hemp-stalks  steep  in  the  narrow  dyke. 

See  here  again,  how  the  lichens  fret 
And  the  roots  of  the  ivy  strike! 

XVI. 

Poor  little  place,  where  its  one  priest  comes 

On  a  festa-day,  if  he  comes  at  all, 
To  the  dozen  folk  from  their  scattered  homes, 

Gathered  within  that  precinct  small 
By  the  dozen  ways  one  roams — 

XVII. 

To  drop  from  the  charcoal-burners'  huts, 
Or  climb  from  the  hemp-dresser's  low  shed, 

Leave  the  grange  where  the  woodman  stores  his  nuts, 
Or  the  wattled  cote  where  the  fowlers  spread 

Their  gear  on  the  rock's  bare  juts. 


86  B7  THE  FIRESIDE. 

XVIII. 

It  has  some  pretension  too,  this  front, 
With  its  bit  of  fresco  half-moon-wise 

Set  over  the  porch,  Art's  early  wont: 
JT  is  John  in  the  Desert,  I  surmise, 

But  has  borne  the  weather's  brunt — 

XIX. 

Not  from  the  fault  of  the  builder,  though, 
For  a  pent-house  properly  projects 

"Where  three  carved  beams  make  a  certain  show, 
Dating — good  thought  of  our  architect's — 

'Five,  six,  nine,  he  lets  you  know. 

xx. 

And  all  day  long  a  bird  sings  there, 

-  And  a  stray  sheep  drinks  at  the  pond  at  times; 
The  place  is  silent  and  aware; 

It  has  had  its  scenes,  its  joys  and  crimes, 
But  that  is  its  own  affair. 

XXI. 

My  perfect  wife,  my  Leonor, 

Oh  heart,  my  own,  oh  eyes,  mine  too, 

Whom  else  could  I  dare  look  backward  for, 
With  whom  beside  should  I  dare  pursue 

The  path  gray  heads  abhor? 

XXII. 

For  it  leads  to  a  crag's  sheer  edge  with  them; 

Youth,  flowery  all  the  way,  there  stops — 
Not  they;  age  threatens  and  they  contemn, 

Till  they  reach  the  gulf  wherein  youth  drops, 
One  inch  from  our  life's  safe  hem ! 


B7  TH^  FIRESIDE. 


XXIII. 


"With  me,  youth  led  ...  I  will  speak  now, 
No  longer  watch  you  as  you  sit 

Reading  by  fire-light,  that  great  brow 
And  the  spirit-small  hand  propping  it, 

Mutely,  my  heart  knows  how  — 


XXIV. 

When,  if  I  think  but  deep  enough, 

You  are  wont  to  answer,  prompt  as  rhyme; 

And  you,  too,  find  without  rebuff 

Eesponse  your  soul  seeks  many  a  time, 

Piercing  its  fine  flesh-stuff. 

XXV. 

My  own,  confirm  me!    If  I  tread 

This  path  back,  is  it  not  in  pride 
To  think  how  little  I  dreamed  it  led 

To  an  age  so  blest  that,  by  its  side, 
Youth  seems  the  waste  instead? 

XXVI. 

My  own,  see  where  the  years  conduct! 

At  first,  't  was  something  our  two  souls 
Should  mix  as  mists  do;  each  is  sucked 

In  each  now:  on,  the  new  stream  rolls, 
Whatever  rocks  obstruct. 

XXVII. 

Think,  when  our  one  soul  understands 
The  great  Word  which  makes  all  things  new, 

When  earht  breaks  up  and  heaven  expands, 
How  will  the  change  strike  me  and  you 

In  the  house  not  made  with  hands? 


88  BT  THE  FIRESIDE. 


XXVIII. 

Oh  I  must  feel  your  brain  prompt  mine, 

Your  heart  anticipate  my  heart, 
You  must  be  just  before,  in  fine, 

See  and  make  me  see,  for  your  part, 
New  depths  of  the  divine! 

XXIX. 

But  who  could  have  expected  this 

When  we  two  drew  together  first 
Just  for  the  obvious  human  bliss, 

To  satisfy  life's  daily  thirst 
With  a  thing  men  seldom  miss? 

XXX. 

Come  back  with  me  to  the  first  of  all, 
Let  us  lean  and  love  it  over  again, 

Let  us  now  forget  and  now  recall, 
Break  the  rosary  in  a  pearly  rain, 

And  gather  what  we  let  fall ! 

XXXI. 

What  did  I  say? — that  a  small  bird  sings 
All  day  long,  save  when  a  brown  pair 

Of  hawks  from  the  wood  float  with  wide  wings 
Strained  to  a  bell :  'gainst  noon-day  glare 

You  count  the  streaks  and  rings. 

XXXII. 

But  at  afternoon  or  almost  eve 

'T  is  better;  then  the  silence  grows 

To  that  degree,  you  half  believe 
It  must  get  rid  of  what  it  knows, 

Its  bosom  does  so  heave. 


BY  THE  FIRESIDE.  89 

XXXIII. 

Hither  we  walked  then,  side  by  side, 

Arm  in  arm  and  cheek  to  cheek, 
And  still  I  questioned  or  replied, 

While  my  heart,  convulsed  to  really  speak, 
Lay  choking  in  its  pride. 

XXXIV. 

Silent  the  crumbling  bridge  we  cross, 
And  pity  and  praise  the  chapel  sweet, 

And  care  about  the  fresco's  loss, 
And  wish  for  our  souls  a  like  retreat, 

And  wonder  at  the  moss. 

XXXV. 

Stoop  and  kneel  on  the  settle  under, 
Look  through  the  window's  grated  square: 

Nothing  to  see !    For  fear  of  plunder, 
The  cross  is  down  and  the  altar  bare, 

As  if  thieves  do  n't  fear  thunder. 

XXXVI. 

"We  stoop  and  look  in  through  the  grate, 

See  the  little  porch  and  rustic  door, 
Read  duly  the  dead  builder's  date; 

Then  cross  the  bridge  that  we  crossed  before, 
Take  the  path  again — but  wait ! 

xxxvn. 

Oh  moment  one  and  infinite! 

The  water  slips  o'er  stock  and  stone; 
The  West  is  tender,  hardly  bright: 

How  gray  at  once  is  the  evening  grown—- 
One star,  its  chrysolite ! 


90  BY  THE  FIRESIDE. 

XXXVIII. 

"We  two  stood  there  with  never  a  third, 
But  each  by  each,  as  each  knew  well: 

The  sights  we  saw  and  the  sounds  we  heard, 
The  lights  and  the  shades  made  up  a  spell 

Till  the  trouble  grew  and  stirred. 

XXXIX. 

Oh,  the  little  more,  and  how  much  it  is! 

And  the  little  less,  and  what  worlds  away! 
How  a  sound  shall  quicken  content  to  bliss, 

Or  a  breath  suspend  the  blood's  best  play, 
And  life  be  a  proof  of  this ! 

XL. 

Had  she  willed  it,  still  had  stood  the  screen 
So  slight,  so  sure,  'twixt  my  love  and  her: 

I  could  fix  her  face  with  a  guard  between, 
And  find  her  soul  as  when  friends  confer, 

Friends — lovers  that  might  have  been. 

XLI. 

For  my  heart  had  a  touch  of  the  woodland  time, 
Wanting  to  sleep  now  over  its  best. 

Shake  the  whole  tree  ii}  the  summer-prime, 
But  bring  to  the  last  leaf  no  such  test! 

"Hold  the  last  fast!"  runs  the  rhyme. 

XLII. 

For  a  chance  to  make  your  little  much, 

To  gain  a  lover  and  lose  a  friend, 
Venture  the  tree  and  a  myriad  such, 

When  nothing  you  mar  but  the  year  can  mend; 
But  a  last  leaf— fear  to  touch ! 


B7  THE  FIRESIDE. 

XLIII. 

Yet  should  it  unfasten  itself  and  fall 
Eddying  down  till  it  find  your  face 

At  some  slight  wind — best  chance  of  all! 
Be  your  heart  henceforth  its  dwelling-place 

You  trembled  to  forestall ! 

XLIV. 

Worth  how  well,  those  dark  gray  eyes, 
That  hair  so  dark  and  dear,  how  worth 

That  a  man  should  strive  and  agonize, 
And  taste  a  veriest  hell  on  earth 

For  the  hope  of  such  a  prize! 

XLV. 

You  might  have  turned  and  tried  a  man, 
Set  him  a  space  to  weary  and  wear, 

And  prove  which  suited  more  your  plan, 
His  best  of  hope  or  his  worst  despair, 

Yet  end  as  he  began. 

XLVI. 

But  you  spared  me  this,  like  the  heart  you  are, 
And  filled  my  empty  heart  at  a  word. 

If  two  lives  join,  there  is  oft  a  scar, 
They  are  one  and  one,  with  a  shadowy  third; 

One  near  one  is  too  far. 

XLVII. 

A  moment  after,  and  hands  unseen 

Were  hanging  the  night  around  us  fast; 

But  we  knew  that  a  bar  was  broken  between 
Life  and  life:  we  were  mixed  at  last 

In  spite  of  the  mortal  screen. 


92  BT  THE  FIRESIDE. 

XLVIII. 

The  forests  had  done  it;  there  they  stood; 

We  caught  for  a  moment  the  powers  at  play: 
They  had  mingled  us  so,  for  once  and  good, 

Their  work  was  done — we  might  go  or  stay, 
They  relapsed  to  their  ancient  mood. 

XLIX. 

How  the  world  is  made  for  each  of  us ! 

How  all  we  perceive  and  know  in  it 
Tends  to  some  moment's  product  thus, 

When  a  soul  declares  itself — to  wit, 
By  its  fruit,  the  thing  it  does ! 

L. 

Be  hate  that  fruit  or  love  that  fruit, 
It  forwards  the  general  deed  of  man, 

And  each  of  the  Many  helps  to  recruit 
The  life  of  the  race  by  a  general  plan; 

Each  living  his  own,  to  boot. 

Li. 

I  am  named  and  known  by  that  moment's  feat; 

There  took  my  station  and  degree; 
So  grew  my  own  small  life  complete, 

As  nature  obtained  her  best  of  me — 
One  born  to  love  you,  sweet! 

LII. 

And  to  watch  you  sink  by  the  fire-side  now 

Back  again,  as  you  mutely  sit 
Musing  by  fire-light,  that  great  brow 

And  the  spirit-small  hand  propping  it, 
Yonder,  my  heart  knows  how ! 


ANT  WIFE  TO  ANY  HUSBAND.  93 

LIU. 

So,  earth  has  gained  by  one  man  the  more, 

And  the  gain  of  earth  must  be  heaven's  gain  too, 

And  the  whole  is  well  worth  thinking  o'er 
When  autumn  comes:  which  I  mean  to  do 

One  day,  as  I  said  before. 


ANY  WIFE  TO  ANY  HUSBAND, 
i. 

MY  love,  this  is  the  bitterest,  that  thou — 
Who  art  all  truth,  and  who  dost  love  me  now 

As  thine  eyes  say,  as  thy  voice  breaks  to  say — 
Shouldst  love  so  truly,  and  couldst  love  me  still 
A  whole  long  life  through,  had  but  love  its  will, 

Would  death,  that  leads  me  from  thee,  brook  delay. 

ii. 

I  have  but  to  be  by  thee,  and  thy  hand 
Will  never  let  mine  go,  nor  heart  withstand 

The  beating  of  my  heart  to  reach  its  place. 
When  shall  I  look  for  thee  and  feel  thee  gone? 
When  cry  for  the  old  comfort  and  find  none? 

Never,  I  know !    Thy  soul  is  in  thy  face. 

in. 

Oh,  I  should  fade — 't  is  willed  so!     Might  I  save, 
Gladly  I  would,  whatever  beauty  gave 

Joy  to  thy  sense,  for  that  was  precious  too. 
It  is  not  to  be  granted.     But  the  soul 
Whence  the  love  comes,  all  ravage  leaves  that  whole; 

Vainly  the  flesh  fades;  soul  makes  all  things  new. 


94  ANT  WIFE  TO  ANT  HUSBAND. 

IV. 

It  would  not  be  because  my  eye  grew  dim 

Thou  couldst  not  find  the  love  there,  thanks  to  Him 

Who  never  dishonored  in  the  spark 
He  gave  us  from  his  fire  of  fires,  and  bade 
Kemember  whence  it  sprang,  nor  be  afraid 

While  that  burns  on,  though  all  the  rest  grow  dark. 

v. 

So,  how  thou  wouldst  be  perfect,  white  and  clean 
Outside  as  inside,  soul  and  soul's  demesne 

Alike,  this  body  given  to  show  it  by! 
Oh,  three-parts  through  the  worst  of  life's  abyss, 
What  plaudits  from  the  next  world  after  this, 

Couldst  thou  repeat  a  stroke  and  gain  the  sky ! 

VI. 

And  is  it  not  the  bitterer  to  think 

That,  disengage  our  hands  and  thou  wilt  sink 

Although  thy  love  was  love  in  very  deed? 
I  know  that  nature !     Pass  a  festive  day, 
Thou  dost  not  throw  its  relic-flower  away 

Nor  bid  its  music's  loitering  echo  speed. 

VII. 

Thou  let'st  the  stranger's  glove  lie  where  it  fell; 
If  old  things  remain  old  things  all  is  well; 

For  thou  art  grateful  as  becomes  man  best: 
And  hadst  thou  only  heard  me  play  one  tune, 
Or  viewed  me  from  a  window,  not  so  soon 

With  thee  would  such  things  fade  as  with  the  rest. 

VIII. 

I  seem  to  see!     We  meet  and  part;  't  is  brief; 
The  book  I  opened  keeps  a  folded  leaf, 


ANT  WIFE  TO  ANT  HUSBAND.  95 

The  very  chair  I  sat  on,  breaks  the  rank; 
That  is  a  portrait  of  me  on  the  wall — 
Three  lines,  my  face  comes  at  so  slight  a  call: 

And  for  all  this,  one  little  hour  to  thank! 

IX. 

But  now,  because  the  hour  through  years  was  fixed, 
Because  our  inmost  beings  met  and  mixed, 

Because  thou  once  hast  loved  me — wilt  thou  dare 
Say  to  thy  soul  and  Who  may  list  beside, 
' 'Therefore  she  is  immortally  my  bride; 

Chance  cannot  change  my  love,  nor  time  impair. 

x. 

"So,  what  if  in  the  dusk  of  life  that  's  left, 
I,  a  tired  traveller  of  my  sun  bereft, 

Look  from  my  path  when,  mimicking  the  same, 
The  fire-fly  glimpses  past  me,  come  and  gone? 
— Where  was  it  till  the  sunset?  where  anon 

It  will  be  at  the  sunrise!    What 's  to  blame?" 

XI. 

Is  it  so  helpful  to  thee?     Canst  thou  take 
The  mimic  up,  nor,  for  the  true  thing's  sake, 

Put  gently  by  such  efforts  at  a  beam? 
Is  the  remainder  of  the  way  so  long, 
Thou  need'st  the  little  solace,  thou  the  strong? 

Watch  out  thy  watch,  let  weak  ones  doze  and  dream  ! 

XII. 

— Ah,  but  the  fresher  faces!     "Is  it  true," 
Thou  'It  ask,  "some  eyes  are  beautiful  and  new? 

Some  hair, — how  can  one  choose  but  grasp  such  wealth? 
And  if  a  man  would  press  his  lips  to  lips 
Fresh  as  the  wilding  hedge-rose-cup  there  slips 

The  dew-drop  out  of,  must  it  be  by  stealth? 


96  ANT  WIFE  TO  ANT  HUSBAND. 

XIII. 

"It  cannot  change  the  love  still  kept  for  Her, 
More  than  if  such  a  picture  I  prefer 

Passing  a  day  with,  to  a  room's  bare  side: 
The  painted  form  takes  nothing  she  possessed, 
Yet,  while  the  Titian's  Venus  lies  at  rest, 

A  man  looks.     Once  more,  what  is  there  to  chide?" 

XIV. 

So  must  I  see,  from  where  I  sit  and  watch, 
My  own  self  sell  myself,  my  hand  attach 

Its  warrant  to  the  very  thefts  from  me — 
Thy  singleness  of  soul  that  made  me  proud, 
Thy  purity  of  heart  I  loved  aloud, 

Thy  man's-truth  I  was  bold  to  bid  God  see ! 

xv. 

Love  so,  then,  if  thou  wilt!     Give  all  thou  canst 
Away  to  the  new  faces — disentranced, 

(Say  it  and  think  it)  obdurate  no  more, 
Ee-issue  looks  and  words  from  the  old  mint, 
Pass  them  afresh,  no  matter  whose  the  print 

Image  and  superscription  once  they  bore! 

XVI. 

Re-coin  thyself  and  give  it  them  to  spend, — 
It  all  comes  to  the  same  thing  at  the  end, 

Since  mine  thou  wast,  mine  art,  and  mine  shalt  be, 
Faithful  or  faithless:  sealing  up  the  sum 
Or  lavish  of  my  treasure,  thou  must  come 

Back  to  the  heart's  place  here  I  keep  for  thee! 

XVII. 

Only,  why  should  it  be  with  stain  at  all? 
Why  must  I,  'twixt  the  leaves  of  coronal, 


ANT  WIFE  TO  ANY  HUSBAND.  97 

Put  any  kiss  of  pardon  on  thy  brow? 
Why  need  the  other  women  know  so  much, 
And  talk  together,  "Such  the  look  and  such 

The  smile  he  used  to  love  with,  then  as  now!" 

XVIII. 

Might  I  die  last  and  show  thee !     Should  I  find 
Such  hardships  in  the  few  years  left  behind, 

If  free  to  take  and  light  my  lamp,  and  go 
Into  my  tomb,  and  shut  the  door  and  sit, 
Seeing  thy  face  on  those  four  sides  of  it 

The  better  that  they  are  so  blank,  I  know ! 

XIX. 

Why,  time  was  what  I  wanted,  to  turn  o'er 
Within  my  mind  each  look,  get  more  and  more 

By  heart  each  word,  too  much  to  learn  at  first; 
And  join  thee  all  the  fitter  for  the  pause 
'Neath  the  low  door-way's  lintel.     That  were  cause 

For  lingering,  though  thou  calledst,  if  I  durst ! 

xx. 

And  yet  thou  art  the  nobler  of  us  two: 

What  dare  I  dream  of,  that  thou  canst  not  do, 

Outstripping  my  ten  small  steps  with  one  stride? 
I  '11  say  then,  here  's  a  trial  and  a  task; 
Is  it  to  bear? — if  easy,  I  '11  not  ask: 

Though  love  fail,  I  can  trust  en  in  thy  pride. 

XXI. 

Pride? — when  those  eyes  forestall  the  life  behind, 
The  death  I  have  to  go  through ! — when  I  find, 

Now  that  I  want  thy  help  most,  all  of  thee! 
What  did  I  fear?  Thy  love  shall  hold  me  fast 
Until  the  little  minute's  sleep  is  past 

And  I  wake  saved. — And  yet  it  will  not  be! 


98  IN  A  TEAR. 

IN  A  YEAR 
i. 


NEVEK  any 

While  I  live, 
Need  I  hope  to  see  his  face 

As  before. 
Once  his  low  grown  chill, 

Mine  may  strive: 
Bitterly  we  re-embrace, 

Single  still. 

II. 

Was  it  something  said, 

Something  done, 
Vexed  him?  was  it  touch  of  hand, 

Turn  of  head? 
Strange !  that  very  way 

Love  begun: 
I  as  little  understand 

Love's  decay. 

in. 

When  I  sewed  or  drew, 

I  recall 
How  he  looked  as  if  I  sung, 

— Sweetly  too. 
If  I  spoke  a  word, 

First  of  all 
Up  his  cheek  the  color  sprung, 

Then  he  heard. 

IV. 

Sitting  by  my  side, 
At  my  feet, 


IN  A  YEAR,  99 

So  he  breathed  but  air  I  breathed, 

Satisfied! 
I,  too,  at  love's  brim 

Touched  the  sweet: 
I  would  die  if  death  bequeathed 

Sweet  to  him. 

v. 

"Speak,  Hove  thee  best!" 

He  exclaimed: 
"Let  thy  love  my  own  foretell!" 

I  confessed : 
"Clasp  my  heart  on  thine 

Now  unblamed, 
Since  upon  thy  soul  as  well 

Hangeth  mine!" 

VI. 

"Was  it  wrong  to  own, 

Being  truth? 
Why  should  all  the  giving  prove 

His  alone? 
I  had  wealth  and  ease, 

Beauty,  youth: 
Since  my  lover  gave  me  love, 

I  gave  these. 

VII. 

That  was  all  I  meant, 

— To  be  just, 
And  the  passion  I  had  raised, 

To  content. 
Since  he  chose  to  change 

Gold  for  dust, 
If  I  gave  him  what  he  praised 

Was  it  strange? 


100  Of  A  TEAR. 


VIII. 

Would  he  love  me  yet, 

On  and  on, 
While  I  found  some  way  undreamed 

— Paid  my  debt! 
Gave  more  life  and  more, 

Till  all  gone, 
He  should  smile  "She  never  seemed 

Mine  before. 

IX. 

"What,  she  felt  the  while, 

Must  I  think? 
Love  's  so  different  with  us  men!" 

He  should  smile: 
"Dying  for  my  sake — 

White  and  pink ! 
Can't  we  touch  these  bubbles  then 

But  they  break?" 

x. 

Dear,  the  pang  is  brief, 

Do  thy  part, 
Have  thy  pleasure !    How  perplexed 

Grows  belief! 
Well,  this  cold  clay  clod 

Was  man's  heart : 
Crumble  it,  and  what  comes  next? 

Is  it  God? 


A  WOMAN'S  LAST  WORD.  101 

SONG  FROM  "JAMES  LEE." 
i. 

OH,  good  gigantic  smile  o'  the  brown  old  earth, 
This  autumn  morning!     How  he  sets  his  bones 

To  bask  i'  the  sun,  and  thrusts  out  knees  and  feet 

For  the  ripple  to  run  over  in  its  mirth : 

Listening  the  while,  where  on  the  heap  of  stones 

The  white  breast  of  the  sea-lark  twitters  sweet. 

n. 

That  is  the  doctrine,  simple,  ancient,  true; 

Such  is  life's  trial,  as  old  earth  smiles  and  knows. 
If  you  loved  only  what  were  worth  your  love, 
Love  were  clear  gain,  and  wholly  well  for  you. 

Make  the  low  nature  better  by  your  throes! 
Give  earth  yourself,  go  up  for  gain  above  1 


A  WOMAN'S  LAST  WORD. 

i. 

LET  's  contend  no  more,  Love, 

Strive  nor  weep : 
All  be  as  before,  Love, 

— Only  sleep ! 

EL 

What  so  wild  as  words  are? 

I  and  thou 
In  debate,  as  birds  are, 

Hawk  on  bough ! 


102  A  WOMAN'S  LAST  WORD. 


III. 


See  the  creature  stalking 

While  we  speak! 
Hush  and  hide  the  talking, 

Cheek  on  cheek. 


IV. 


What  so  false  as  truth  is, 

False  to  thee? 
Where  the  serpent's  tooth  is, 

Shun  the  tree — 

v. 

Where  the  apple  reddens, 

Never  pry — 
Lest  we  lose  our  Edens, 

Eve  and  I. 

VI. 

Be  a  god  and  hold  me 

With  a  charm ! 
Be  a  man  and  fold  me 

With  thine  arm! 


VII. 


Teach  me,  only  teach,  Love! 

As  I  ought 
I  will  speak  thy  speech,  Love, 

Think  thy  thought— 


VIII. 


Meet,  if  thou  require  it, 

Both  demands, 
Laying  flesh  and  spirit 

In  thy  hands. 


MEETING  AT  NIGHT.  103 


IX. 


That  shall  be  to-morrow, 

Not  to-night: 
I  must  bury  sorrow 

Out  of  sight: 


x. 


— Must  a  little  weep,  Love, 

(Foolish  me !) 
And  so  fall  asleep,  Love, 

Loved  by  thee. 


MEETING  AT  NIGHT, 
i. 

THE  gray  sea  and  the  long  black  land; 
And  the  yellow  half-moon  large  and  low; 
And  the  startled  little  waves  that  leap 
In  fiery  ringlets  from  their  sleep, 
As  I  gain  the  cove  with  pushing  prow, 
And  quench  its  speed  i'  the  slushy  sand. 

ii. 

Then  a  mile  of  warm  sea-scented  beach ; 
Three  fields  to  cross  till  a  farm  appears ; 
A.  tap  at  the  pane,  the  quick  sharp  scratch 
And  blue  spurt  of  a  lighted  match, 
And  a  voice  less  loud,  through  joys  and  fears, 
Than  the  two  hearts  beating  each  to  each ! 


IQ4.  WOMEN  AND  ROSES. 


PARTING  AT  MORNING. 

ROUND  the  cape  of  a  sudden  came  the  sea, 
And  the  sun  looked  over  the  mountain's  rim; 
And  straight  was  a  path  of  gold  for  him, 
And  the  need  of  a  world  of  men  for  me. 


WOMEN  AND  ROSES, 
i. 

I  DREAM  of  a  red-rose  tree. 
And  which  of  its  roses  three 
Is  the  dearest  rose  to  me? 

n. 

Round  and  round,  like  a  dance  of  snow 
In  a  dazzling  drift,  as  its  guardians,  go 
Floating  the  women  faded  for  ages, 
Sculptured  in  stone,  on  the  poet's  pages. 
Then  follow  women  fresh  and  gay, 
Living  and  loving  and  loved  to-day. 
Last,  in  the  rear,  flee  the  multitude  of  maidens, 
Beauties  yet  unborn.     And  all,  to  one  cadence, 
They  circle  their  rose  on  my  rose  tree. 

in. 

Dear  rose,  thy  term  is  reached, 
Thy  leaf  hangs  loose  and  bleached : 
Bees  pass  it  unimpeached. 

IV. 

Stay  then,  stoop,  since  I  cannot  climb, 
You,  great  shapes  of  the  antique  time, 


WOMEN  AND  ROSES.  105 

How  shall  I  fix  you,  fire  you,  freeze  you, 

Break  my  heart  at  your  feet  to  please  you? 

Oh,  to  possess  and  be  possessed! 

Hearts  that  beat  'neath  each  pallid  breast! 

Once  but  of  love,  the  poesy,  the  passion, 

Drink  but  once  and  die! — In  vain,  the  same  fashion, 

They  circle  their  rose  on  my  rose  tree. 

v. 

Dear  rose,  thy  joy  's  undimmed ; 

Thy  cup  is  ruby-rimmed, 

Thy  cup's  heart  nectar-brimmed. 

VI. 

Deep,  as  drops  from  a  statue's  plinth 
The  bee  sucked  in  by  the  hyacinth, 
So  will  I  bury  me  while  burning, 
Quench  like  him  at  a  plunge  my  yearning, 
Eyes  in  your  eyes,  lips  on  your  lips ! 
Fold  me  fast  where  the  cincture  slips, 
Prison  all  my  soul  in  eternities  of  pleasure, 
Girdle  me  for  once !     But  no — the  old  measure, 
They  circle  their  rose  on  my  rose  tree. 

VII. 

Dear  rose  without  a  thorn, 
Thy  bud  's  the  babe  unborn : 
First  streak  of  a  new  morn. 

VIII. 

Wings,  lend  wings  for  the  cold,  the  clear! 
What  is  far  conquers  what  is  near. 
Roses  will  bloom  nor  want  beholders, 
Sprung  from  the  dust  where  our  flesh  moulders. 


106  A  PRETTY  'WOMAN. 

What  shall  arrive  with  the  cycle's  change? 

A  novel  grace  and  a  beauty  strange. 

I  will  make  an  Eve,  be  the  Artist  that  began  her, 

Shaped  her  to  his  mind! — Alas!  in  like  manner 

They  circle  their  rose  on  my  rose  tree. 


MISCONCEPTIONS. 

i. 

THIS  is  a  spray  the  bird  clung  to, 

Making  it  blossom  with  pleasure, 
Ere  the  high  tree-top  she  sprung  to, 

Fit  for  her  nest  and  her  treasure. 

Oh,  what  a  hope  beyond  measure 
Was  the  poor  spray's,  which  the  flying  feet  hung  to,- 
So  to  be  singled  out,  built  in,  and  sung  to ! 

n. 

This  is  a  heart  the  queen  leant  on, 

Thrilled  in  a  minute  erratic, 
Ere  the  true  bosom  she  bent  on, 

Meet  for  love's  regal  dalmatic. 

Oh,  what  a  fancy  ecstatic 

Was  the  poor  heart's,  ere  the  wanderer  went  on, — 
Love  to  be  saved  for  it,  proffered  to,  spent  on ! 


A  PRETTY  WOMAN. 


THAT  fawn-skin-dappled  hair  of  hers, 

And  the  blue  eye 

Dear  and  dewy, 
And  that  infantine  fresh  air  of  hers! 


A  PRETTY  WOMAN.  10? 

II. 

To  think  men  cannot  take  you,  Sweet, 

And  enfold  you, 

Ay,  and  hold  you, 
And  so  keep  you  what  they  make  you,  Sweet! 

in. 

You  like  us  for  a  glance,  you  know — 

For  a  word's  sake 

Or  a  sword's  sake : 
All 's  the  same,  whate'er  the  chance,  you  know. 

IV. 

And  in  turn  we  make  you  ours,  we  say — 

You  and  youth  too, 

Eyes  and  mouth  too, 
All  the  face  composed  of  flowers,  we  say.    . 

v. 

All  's  our  own,  to  make  the  most  of,  Sweet — 

Sing  and  say  for, 

Watch  and  pray  for, 
Keep  a  secret  or  go  boast  of,  Sweet ! 

VI. 

But  for  loving,  why,  you  would  not,  Sweet, 

Though  we  prayed  you, 

Paid  you,  brayed  you 
In  a  mortar — for  you  could  not,  Sweet ! 

VII. 

So,  we  leave  the  sweet  face  fondly  there: 

Be  its  beauty 

Its  sole  duty! 
Let  all  hope  of  grace  beyond,  lie  there! 


108  ^  PRETTY  WOMAN. 


VIII. 


And  while  the  face  lies  quiet  there, 

Who  shall  wonder 

That  I  ponder 
A  conclusion?    I  will  try  it  there. 


IX. 


As, — why  must  one,  for  the  love  foregone, 

Scout  mere  liking? 

Thunder-striking 
Earth, — the  heaven,  we  looked  above  for,  gone ! 


x. 


Why,  with  beauty,  needs  there  money  be, 

Love  with  liking? 

Crush  the  fly-king 
In  his  gauze,  because  no  honey-bee? 


XI. 


May  not  liking  be  so  simple-sweet, 

If  love  grew  there 

'T  would  undo  there 
All  that  breaks  the  cheek  to  dimples  sweet? 


XII. 


Is  the  creature  too  imperfect,  say? 

Would  you  mend  it 

And  so  end  it? 
Since  not  all  addition  perfects  aye ! 


XIII. 


Or  is  it  of  its  kind,  perhaps, 

Just  perfection — 

Whence,  rejection 
Of  a  grace  not  to  its  mind,  perhaps? 


A  PRETTY  WOMAN.  109 

XIV. 

Shall  we  burn  up,  tread  that  face  at  once 

Into  tinder, 

And  so  hinder 
Sparks  from  kindling  all  the  place  at  once? 

XV. 

Or  else  kiss  away  one's  sonl  on  her? 

Your  love-fancies ! 

— A  sick  man  sees 
Truer,  when  his  hot  eyes  roll  on  her ! 

XVI. 

Thus  the  craftsman  thinks  to  grace  the  rose, — 

Plucks  a  mould-flower 

For  his  gold  flower, 
Uses  fine  things  that  efface  the  rose: 

XVII. 

Eosy  rubies  make  its  cup  more  rose, 

Precious  metals 

Ape  the  petals, — 
Last,  some  old  king  locks  it  up,  morose. 

XVIII. 

Then  how  grace  a. rose?    I  know  a  way! 

Leave  it,  rather. 

Must  you  gather? 
Smell,  kiss,  wear  it — at  last,  throw  away! 


110  A  LIGHT  WOMAN. 


A  LIGHT  WOMAN. 

i. 

So  far  as  our  story  approaches  the  end, 
Which  do  you  pity  the  most  of  us  three?— 

My  friend,  or  the  mistress  of  my  friend 
With  her  wanton  eyes,  or  me? 

ii. 

My  friend  was  already  too  good  to  lose, 

And  seemed  in  the  way  of  improvement  yet, 

When  she  crossed  his  path  with  her  hunting-noose 
And  over  him  drew  her  net. 

in. 

When  I  saw  him  tangled  in  her  toils, 
A  shame,  said  I,  if  she  adds  just  him 

To  her  nine-and-ninety  other  spoils, 
The  hundredth  for  a  whim ! 

IV. 

And  before  my  friend  be  wholly  hers, 

How  easy  to  prove  to  him,  I  said, 
An  eagle  's  the  game  her  pride  prefers, 

Though  she  snaps  at  a  wren  instead ' 

v. 

So,  I  gave  her  eyes  my  own  eyes  to  take, 
My  hand  sought  hers  as  in  earnest  need, 

And  round  she  turned  for  my  noble  sake, 
And  gave  me  herself  indeed. 


A  LIGHT  WOMAN.  Ill 

VI. 

The  eagle  am  I,  with  my  fame  in  the  world, 

The  wren  is  he,  with  his  maiden  face. 
— You  look  away  and  your  lip  is  curled? 

Patience,  a  moment's  space! 

VII. 

For  see,  my  friend  goes  shaking  and  white; 

He  eyes  me  as  the  basilisk : 
I  have  turned,  it  appears,  his  day  to  night, 

Eclipsing  his  sun's  disk. 

VIII. 

And  I  did  it,  he  thinks,  as  a  very  thief: 

"Though  I  love  her — that,  he  comprehends — 

One  should  master  one's  passions,  (love,  in  chief) 
And  be  loyal  to  one's  friends!" 

IX. 

And  she, — she  lies  in  my  hand  as  tame 

As  a  pear  late  basking  over  a  wall ; 
Just  a  touch  to  try,  and  off  it  came; 

'T  is  mine, — can  I  let  it  fall? 

x. 

"With  no  mind  to  eat  it,  that 's  the  worst! 

Were  it  thrown  in  the  road,  would  the  case  assist? 
'T  was  quenching  a  dozen  blue-flies'  thirst 

When  I  gave  its  stalk  a  twist. 

XI. 

And  I, — what  I  seem  to  my  friend,  you  see; 

What  I  soon  shall  seem  to  his  love,  you  guess : 
What  I  seem  to  myself,  do  you  ask  of  me? 

No  hero,  I  confess. 


112  LOVE  IN  A  LIFE. 


XII. 


*T  is  an  awkward  thing  to  play  with  souls, 
And  matter  enough  to  save  one's  own : 

Yet  think  of  my  friend,  and  the  burning  coals 
We  played  with  for  bits  of  stone ! 


XIII. 


One  likes  to  show  the  truth  for  the  truth; 

That  the  woman  was  light  is  very  true: 
But  suppose  she  says, — Never  mind  that  youth  1 

What  wrong  have  I  done  to  you  ? 


XIV. 


Well,  any  how,  here  the  story  stays, 
So  far  at  least  as  I  understand ; 

And,  Robert  Browning,  you  writer  of  plays, 
Here  Js  a  subject  made  to  your  hand! 


LOVE  IN  A  LIFE. 

i. 

ROOM  after  room, 

I  hunt  the  house  through 

We  inhabit  together. 

Heart,  fear  nothing,  for,  heart,  thou  shalt  find  her — 

Next  time,  herself! — not  the  trouble  behind  her 

Left  in  the  curtain,  the  couch's  perfume ! 

As  she  brushed  it,  the  cornice- wreath  blossomed  anew; 

Yon  looking-glass  gleamed  at  the  wave  of  her  feather. 

n. 

Yet  the  day  wears. 

And  door  succeeds  door; 

I  try  the  fresh  fortune — 

Range  the  wide  house  from  the  wing  to  the  centre. 


LIFE  IN  A  LOVE.  113 

Still  the  same  chance!  she  goes  out  as  I  enter. 
Spend  my  whole  day  in  the  quest, — who  cares? 
But 't  is  twilight,  you  see, — with  such  suites  to  explore, 
Such  closets  to  search,  such  alcoves  to  importune! 


LIFE  IN  A  LOVE. 

ESCAPE  me? 

Never — 

Beloved ! 

While  I  am  I,  and  you  are  you, 

So  long  as  the  world  contains  us  both, 

Me  the  loving  and  you  the  loth, 
While  the  one  eludes,  must  the  other  pursue. 
My  life  is  a  fault  at  last,  I  fear: 

It  seems  too  much  like  a  fate,  indeed ! 

Though  I  do  my  best  I  shall  scarce  succeed. 
But  what  if  I  fail  of  my  purpose  here? 
It  is  but  to  keep  the  nerves  at  strain, 

To  dry  one's  eyes  and  laugh  at  a  fall, 
And  baffled,  get  up  and  begin  again, — 

So  the  chase  takes  up  one's  life,  that  's  all. 
While,  look  but  once  from  your  farthest  bound 

At  me  so  deep  in  the  dust  and  dark, 
No  sooner  the  old  hope  goes  to  ground 

Than  a  new  one,  straight  to  the  self-same  mark, 
I  shape  me — 
Ever 
Removed! 


114  THE  LABORATORY. 


THE  LABORATORY. 

ANCIEtf  KEGIME. 
I. 

Now  that  I,  tying  thy  glass  mask  tightly, 
May  gaze  thro'  these  faint  smokes  curling  whitely, 
As  thou  pliest  thy  trade  in  this  devil's  smithy — 
Which  is  the  poison  to  poison  her,  prithee? 

n. 

He  is  with  her,  and  they  know  that  I  know 
Where  they  are,  what  they  do:  they  believe  my  tears  flow 
While  they  laugh,  laugh  at  me,  at  me  fled  to  the  drear 
Empty  church,  to  pray  God  in,  for  them ! — I  am  here. 

in. 

Grind  away,  moisten  and  mash  up  thy  paste, 
Pound  at  thy  powder, — I  am  not  in  haste ! 
Better  sit  thus  and  observe  thy  strange  things, 
Than  go  where  men  wait  me,  and  dance  at  the  King's. 

IV. 

That  in  the  mortar — you  call  it  a  gum? 

Ah,  the  brave  tree  whence  such  gold  oozings  come! 

And  yonder  soft  phial,  the  exquisite  blue, 

Sure  to  taste  sweetly, — is  that  poison  too? 

v. 

Had  I  but  all  of  them,  thee  and  thy  treasures, 
What  a  wild  crowd  of  invisible  pleasures ! 
To  carry  pure  death  in  an  ear-ring,  a  casket, 
A  signet,  a  fan-mount,  a  filigree  basket! 


THE  LABORATORY.  115 

VI. 

Soon,  at  the  King's,  a  mere  lozenge  to  give 
And  Pauline  should  have  just  thirty  minutes  to  live! 
But  to  light  a  pastile,  and  Elise  with  her  head 
And  her  breast  and  her  arms  and  her  hands,  should  drop 
dead! 

VII. 

Quick — is  it  finished?    The  color  's  too  grim! 
Why  not  soft  like  the  phial's,  enticing  and  dim? 
Let  it  brighten  her  drink,  let  her  turn  it  and  stir, 
And  try  it  and  taste,  ere  she  fix  and  prefer! 

VIII. 

What  a  drop!     She  's  not  little,  no  minion  like  me! 
That 's  why  she  ensnared  him :  this  never  will  free 
The  soul  from  those  masculine  eyes, — say,  "No!" 
To  that  pulse's  magnificent  come-and-go. 

IX. 

For  only  last  night,  as  they  whispered,  I  brought 
My  own  eyes  to  bear  on  her  so,  that  I  thought 
Could  I  keep  them  one-half  minute  fixed,  she  would  fall 
Shrivelled;  she  fell  not;  yet  this  does  it  all! 

x. 

Not  that  I  bid  you  spare  her  the  pain ; 
Let  death  be  felt  and  the  proof  remain: 
Brand,  burn  up,  bite  into  its  grace — 
He  is  sure  to  remember  her  dying  face! 

XI. 

Is  it  done?    Take  my  mask  off!    Nay,  be  not  morose; 
It  kills  her,  and  this  prevents  seeing  it  close: 
The  delicate  droplet,  my  whole  fortune's  fee! 
If  it  hurts  her,  beside,  can  it  ever  hurt  me? 


116  GOLD  HAIR. 


XII. 


Now,  take  all  my  jewels,  gorge  gold  to  your  fill, 
You  may  kiss  me,  old  man,  on  my  mouth  if  you  will ! 
But  brush  this  dust  off  me,  lest  horror  it  brings 
Ere  I  know  it — next  moment  I  dance  at  the  King's! 


GOLD   HAIR: 

A  STORY  OF    POENIC. 
I. 

OH,  the  beautiful  girl,  too  white, 
Who  lived  at  Pornic  down  by  the  sea, 

Just  where  the  sea  and  the  Loire  unite! 
And  a  boasted  name  in  Brittany 

She  bore,  which  I  will  not  write.      ' 

ii. 

Too  white,  for  the  flower  of  life  is  red; 

Her  flesh  was  the  soft  seraphic  screen 
Of  a  soul  that  is  meant  (her  parents  said) 

To  just  see  earth,  and  hardly  be  seen, 
And  blossom  in  heaven  instead. 

in. 

Yet  earth  saw  one  thing,  one  how  fair ! 

One  grace  that  grew  to  its  full  on  earth : 
Smiles  might  be  sparse  on  her  cheek  so  spare. 

And  her  waist  want  half  a  girdle's  girth, 
But  she  had  her  great  gold  hair. 


GOLD  HAIR.  11? 

IV. 

Hair,  such  a  wonder  of  flix  and  floss, 

Freshness  and  fragrance — floods  of  it,  tooi 

Gold,  did  I  say?    Nay,  gold  's  mere  dross: 
Here,  Life  smiled,  "Think  what  I  meant  to  doP 

And  Love  sighed,  "Fancy  my  loss!" 

v. 

So,  when  she  died,  it  was  scarce  more  strange 
Than  that,  when  some  delicate  evening  dies, 

And  you  follow  its  spent  sun's  pallid  range, 
There  's  a  shoot  of  color  startles  the  skies 

With  sudden,  violent  change, — 

VI. 

That,  while  the  breath  was  nearly  to  seek, 
As  they  put  the  little  cross  to  her  lips, 

She  changed;  a  spot  came  out  on  her  cheek, 
A  spark  from  her  eye  in  mid-eclipse, 

And  she  broke  forth,  "I  must  speak!" 

VII. 

"Not  my  hair!"  made  the  girl  her  moan — 

"All  the  rest  is  gone  or  to  go; 
But  the  last,  last  grace,  my  all,  my  own, 

Let  it  stay  in  the  grave,  that  the  ghosts  may  know! 
Leave  my  poor  gold  hair  alone!" 

VIII. 

The  passion  thus  vented,  dead  lay  she: 
Her  parents  sobbed  their  worst  on  that, 

All  friends  joined  in,  nor  observed  degree: 
For  indeed  the  hair  was  to  wonder  at, 

As  it  spread — not  flowing  free, 


118  GOLD  HAIR. 

IX. 

But  curled  around  her  brow,  like  a  crown, 
And  coiled  beside  her  cheeks,  like  a  cap, 

And  calmed  about  her  neck — ay,  down 
To  her  breast,  pressed  flat,  without  a  gap 

F  the  gold,  it  reached  her  gown. 

x. 

All  kissed  that  face,  like  a  silver  wedge 

'Mid  the  yellow  wealth,  nor  disturbed  its  hair: 

E'en  the  priest  allowed  death's  privilege, 
As  he  planted  the  crucifix  with  care 

On  her  breast,  'twixt  edge  and  edge. 

XI. 

And  thus  was  she  buried,  inviolate 

Of  body  and  soul,  in  the  very  space 
By  the  altar;  keeping  saintly  state 

In  Pornic  church,  for  her  pride  of  race, 
Pure  life  and  piteous  fate. 

XII. 

And  in  after-time  would  your  fresh  tear  fall, 

Though  your  month  might  twitch  with  a  dubious 
smile, 

As  they  told  you  of  gold  both  robe  and  pall, 
How  she  prayed  them  leave  it  alone  a  while, 

So  it  never  was  touched  at  all. 

XIII. 

Years  flew ;  this  legend  grew  at  last 
The  life  of  the  lady;  all  she  had  done, 

All  been,  in  the  memories  fading  fast 
Of  lover  and  friend,  was  summed  in 

Sentence  survivors  passed : 


GOLD  HAIR.  119 

XIV. 

To  wit,  she  was  meant  for  heaven,  not  earth; 

Had  turned  an  angel  before  the  time: 
Yet,  since  she  was  mortal,  in  such  dearth 

Of  frailty,  all  you  could  count  a  crime 
Was — she  knew  her  gold  hair's  worth. 

xv. 

At  little  pleasant  Pornic  church, 

It  chanced,  the  pavement  wanted  repair, 
Was  taken  to  pieces:  left  in  the  lurch, 

A  certain  sacred  space  lay  bare, 
And  the  boys  began  research. 

XVI. 

'T  was  the  space  where  our  sires  would  lay  a  saint, 

A  benefactor, — a  bishop,  suppose, 
A  baron  with  armor-adornments  quaint, 

Dame  with  chased  ring  and  jewelled  rose, 
Things  sanctity  saves  from  taint; 

XVII. 

So  we  come  to  find  them  in  after-days 

When  the  corpse  is  presumed  to  have  done  with  gauds 
Of  use  to  the  living,  in  many  ways : 

For  the  boys  get  pelf,  and  the  town  applauds, 
And  the  church  deserves  the  praise. 

XVIII. 

They  grubbed  with  a  will:  and  at  length — 0  cor 

Humanum,  pectora  cosca,  and  the  rest! — 
They  found — no  gaud  they  were  prying  for, 

No  ring,  no  rose,  but — who  would  have  guessed? — 
A  double  Louis-d'orl 


120  GOLD  HAIR. 

XIX. 

Here  was  a  case  for  the  priest :  he  heard, 
Marked,  inwardly  digested,  laid 

Finger  on  nose,  smiled,  "A  little  bird 

Chirps  in  my  ear:"  then,  "Bring  a  spade, 

Dig  deeper!" — he  gave  the  word. 

xx. 

And  lo,  when  they  came  to  the  coffin-lid, 
Or  rotten  planks  which  composed  it  once, 

Why,  there  lay  the  girl's  skull  wedged  amid 
A  mint  of  money,  it  served  for  the  nonce 

To  hold  in  its  hair-heaps  hid! 

XXI. 

Hid  there?    Why?     Could  the  girl  be  wont 
(She  the  stainless  soul)  to  treasure  up 

Money,  earth's  trash  and  heaven's  affront? 
Had  a  spider  found  out  the  communion-cup, 

Was  a  toad  in  the  christening-font? 

XXII. 

Truth  is  truth :  too  true  it  was. 

Gold !     She  hoarded  and  hugged  it  first, 
Longed  for  it,  leaned  o'er  it,  loved  it — alas — 

Till  the  humor  grew  to  a  head  and  burst, 
And  she  cried,  at  the  final  pass, — 

XXIII. 

"Talk  not  of  God,  my  heart  is  stone! 

Nor  lover  nor  friend — be  gold  for  both! 
Gold  I  lack;  and,  my  all,  my  own, 

It  shall  hide  in  my  hair.     I  scarce  die  loth 
If  they  let  my  hair  alone  !•' ' 


GOLD  HAIR.  121 

XXIV. 

Louis-d'ors,  some  six  times  five, 

And  duly  double,  every  piece. 
Now,  do  you  see?    With  the  priest  to  shrive, 

With  parents  preventing  her  sou^s  release 
By  kisses  that  kept  alive, — 

XXV. 

With  heaven's  gold  gates  about  to  ope, 

With  friends'  praise,  gold-like,  lingering  still, 

An  instinct  had  bidden  the  girl's  hand  grope 
For  gold,  the  true  sort — "Gold  in  heaven,  if  you  will; 

But  I  keep  earth's  too,  I  hope." 

XXVI. 

Enough!     The  priest  took  the  grave's  grim  yield: 
The  parents,  they  eyed  that  price  of  sin 

As  if  thirty  pieces  lay  revealed 
On  the  place  to  bury  strangers  in, 

The  hideous  Potter's  Field. 

XXVII. 

But  the  priest  bethought  him:  "  'Milk  that  's  spilt* 
— You  know  the  adage!    Watch  and  pray! 

Saints  tumble  to  earth  with  so  slight  a  tilt! 
It  would  build  a  new  altar;  that,  we  may!" 

And  the  altar  therewith  was  built. 

XXVIII. 

Why  I  deliver  this  horrible  verse? 

As  the  text  of  a  sermon,  which  now  I  preach. 
Evil  or  good  may  be  better  or  worse 

In  the  human  heart,  but  the  mixture  of  each 
Is  a  marvel  and  a  curse. 


122  THE  STATUE  AND  THE  BUST. 

XXIX. 

The  candid  incline  to  surmise  of  late 

That  the  Christian  faith  may  be  false,  I  find ; 

For  our  Essays-and-Keviews'  debate 
Begins  to  tell  on  the  public  mind, 

And  Colenso's  words  have  weight: 

XXX. 

I  still,  to  suppose  it  true,  for  my  part, 
See  reasons  and  reasons ;  this,  to  begin : 

'T  is  the  faith  that  launched  point-blank  her  dart 

At  the  head  of  a  lie — taught  Original  Sin, 
The  Corruption  of  Man's  Heart. 


THE  STATUE  AND  THE  BUST. 

THERE  's  a  palace  in  Florence,  the  world  knows  well, 
And  a  statue  watches  it  from  the  square, 
And  this  story  of  both  do  our  townsmen  tell. 

Ages  ago,  a  lady  there, 

At  the  farthest  window  facing  the  East 

Asked,  "Who  rides  by  with  the  royal  air?" 

The  bridesmaids'  prattle  around  her  ceased; 

She  leaned  forth,  one  on  either  hand; 

They  saw  how  the  blush  of  the  bride  increased — 

They  felt  by  its  beats  her  heart  expand — 
As  one  at  each  ear  and  both  in  a  breath 
Whispered,  "The  Great  Duke  Ferdinand." 

That  self-same  instant,  underneath, 
The  Duke  rode  past  in  his  idle  way, 
Empty  and  fine  like  a  swordless  sheath. 


THE  STATUE  AND  TUB  BUST.  123 

Gay  he  rode,  with  a  friend  as  gay, 

Till  he  threw  his  head  back— "Who  is  she?" 

— "A  bride  the  Riccardi  brings  home  to-day." 

Hair  in  heaps  lay  heavily 

Over  a  pale  brow  spirit-pure — 

Carved  like  the  heart  of  the  coal-black  tree. 

Crisped  like  a  war-steed's  encolure — 
And  vainly  sought  to  dissemble  her  eyes 
Of  the  blackest  black  our  eyes  endure. 

And  lo,  a  blade  for  a  knight's  emprise 
Filled  the  fine  empty  sheath  of  a  man, — 
The  Duke  grew  straightway  brave  and  wise. 

He  looked  at  her,  as  a  lover  can; 

She  looked  at  him,  as  one  who  awakes: 

The  past  was  asleep,  and  her  life  began. 

Now,  love  so  ordered  for  both  their  sakes, 

A  feast  was  held,  that  self -same  night, 

In  the  pile  which  the  mighty  shadow  makes. 

(For  Via  Larga  is  three  parts  light, 

But  the  palace  overshadows  one, 

Because  of  a  crime  which  may  God  requite! 

To  Florence  and  God  the  wrong  was  done, 
Through  the  first  republic's  murder  there 
By  Cosimo  and  his  cursed  son). 

The  Duke  (with  the  statue's  face  in  the  square) 
Turned,  in  the  midst  of  his  multitude, 
At  the  bright  approach  of  the  bridal  pair. 

Face  to  face  the  lovers  stood 

A  single  minute  and  no  more, 

While  the  bridegroom  bent  as  a  man  subdued — 


124  THE  8TA  THE  A  ND  THE  B  UST. 

Bowed  till  his  bonnet  brushed  the  floor — 
For  the  Duke  on  the  lady  a  kiss  conferred, 
As  the  courtly  custom  was  of  yore. 

Ij.  a  minute  can  lovers  exchange  a  word? 
If  a  word  did  pass,  which  I  do  not  think, 
Only  one  out  of  the  thousand  heard. 

That  was  the  bridegroom.     At  day's  brink 
He  and  his  bride  were  alone  at  last 
In  a  bed-chamber  by  a  taper's  blink. 

Calmly  he  said  that  her  lot  was  cast, 

That  the  door  she  had  passed  was  shut  on  her 

Till  the  final  catafalk  repassed. 

The  world  meanwhile,  its  noise  and  stir, 
Through  a  certain  window  facing  the  East, 
She  could  watch  like  a  convent's  chronicler. 

Since  passing  the  door  might  lead  to  a  feast, 
And  a  feast  might  lead  to  so  much  beside, 
He,  of  many  evils,  chose  the  least. 

"Freely  I  choose  too,"  said  the  bride — 
"Your  window  and  its  world  suffice," 
Eeplied  the  tongue,  while  the  heart  replied — • 

"If  I  spend  the  night  with  that  devil  twice, 
May  his  window  serve  as  my  loop  of  hell 
Whence  a  damned  soul  looks  on  paradise! 

"I  fly  to  the  Duke  who  loves  me  well, 
Sit  by  his  side  and  laugh  at  sorrow 
Ere  I  count  another  ave-bell. 

"'T  is  only  the  coat  of  a  page  to  borrow, 
And  tie  my  hair  in  a  horse-boy's  trim, 
And  I  save  my  soul — but  not  to-morrow" — 


THE  STATUE  AND  THE  BUST.  125 

(She  checked  herself  and  her  eye  grew  dim) 
"My  father  tarries  to  bless  my  state: 
I  must  keep  it  one  day  more  for  him. 

"Is  one  day  more  so  long  to  wait? 
Moreover  the  Duke  rides  past,  I  know; 
"We  shall  see  each  other,  sure  as  fate." 

She  turned  on  her  side  and  slept.     Just  so! 
So  we  resolve  on  a  thing,  and  sleep: 
So  did  the  lady,  ages  ago. 

That  night  the  Duke  said,  "Dear  or  cheap 
As  the  cost  of  this  cup  of  bliss  may  prove 
To  body  or  soul,  I  will  drain  it  deep. 

And  on  the  morrow,  bold  with  love, 

He  beckoned  the  bridegroom  (close  on  call, 

As  his  duty  bade,  by  the  Duke's  alcove) 

And  smiled  "'T  was  a  very  funeral, 
Your  lady  will  think,  this  feast  of  ours, — 
A  shame  to  efface,  whate'er  befall! 

"What  if  we  break  from  the  Arno  bowers, 

And  try  if  Petraja,  cool  and  green, 

Cure  last  night's  fault  with  this  morning's  flowers?" 

The  bridegroom,  not  a  thought  to  be  seen 
On  his  steady  brow  and  quiet  mouth, 
Said,  "Too  much  favor  for  me  so  mean! 

"But,  alas!  my  lady  leaves  the  South; 
Each  wind  that  comes  from  the  Apennine 
Is  a  menace  to  her  tender  youth : 

"Nor  a  way  exists,  the  wise  opine, 
If  she  quits  her  palace  twice  this  year, 
To  avert  the  flower  of  life's  decline." 


126  THE  STATUE  AND  THE  BUST. 

Quoth  the  Duke,  "A  sage  and  a  kindly  fear. 
Moreover  Petraja  is  cold  this  spring: 
Be  our  feast  to-night  as  usual  here!" 

And  then  to  himself — "Which  night  shall  bring 
Thy  bride  to  her  lover's  embraces,  fool — 
Or  I  am  the  fool,  and  thou  art  the  king! 

"Yet  my  passion  must  wait  a  night,  nor  cool — • 
For  to-night  the  Envoy  arrives  from  France 
Whose  heart  I  unlock  with  thyself,  my  tool. 

"I  need  thee  still  and  might  miss  perchance. 

To-day  is  not  wholly  lost,  beside, 

With  its  h<5pe  of  my  lady's  countenance: 

"For  I  ride — what  should  I  do  but  ride? 

And,  passing  her  palace,  if  I  list, 

May  glance  at  its  window — well  betide!" 

So  said,  so  done :  nor  the  lady  missed 
One  ray  that  broke  from  the  ardent  brow, 
Nor  a  curl  of  the  lips  where  the  spirit  kissed. 

Be  sure  that  each  renewed  the  vow, 
No  morrow's  sun  should  arise  and  set 
And  leave  them  then  as  it  left  them  now. 

But  next  day  passed,  and  next  day  yet, 
With  still  fresh  cause  to  wait  one  day  more 
Ere  each  leaped  over  the  parapet. 

And  still,  as  love's  brief  morning  wore, 
With  a  gentle  start,  half  smile,  half  sigh, 
They  found  love  not  as  it  seemed  before. 

They  thought  it  would  work  infallibly, 

But  not  in  despite  of  heaven  and  earth: 

The  rose  would  blow  when  the  storm  passed  by. 


THE  STA  TUE  AND  THE  B  VST.  12? 

Meantime  they  could  profit,  in  winter's  dearth, 
By  store  of  fruits  that  supplant  the  rose: 
The  world  and  its  ways  have  a  certain  worth: 

And  to  press  a  point  while  these  oppose 

Were  simply  policy ;  better  wait : 

We  lose  no  friends  and  we  gain  no  foes. 

Meantime,  worse  fates  than  a  lover's  fate, 
Who  daily  may  ride  and  pass  and  look 
Where  his  lady  watches  behind  the  grate! 

And  she — she  watched  the  square  like  a  book 
Holding  one  picture  and  only  one, 
Which  daily  to  find  she  undertook : 

When  the  picture  was  reached  the  book  was  done, 
And  she  turned  from  the  picture  at  night  to  scheme 
Of  tearing  it  out  for  herself  next  sun. 

So  weeks  grew  months,  years;  gleam  by  gleam 
The  glory  dropped  from  their  youth  and  love, 
And  both  perceived  they  had  dreamed  a  dream ; 

Which  hovered  as  dreams  do,  still  above : 
But  who  can  take  a  dream  for  a  truth? 
Oh,  hide  our  eyes  from  the  next  remove ! 

One  day  as  the  lady  saw  her  youth 
Depart,  and  the  silver  thread  that  streaked 
Her  hair,  and,  worn  by  the  serpent's  tooth, 

The  brow  so  puckered,  the  chin  so  peaked, — 
And  wondered  who  the  woman  was, 
Hollow-eyed  and  haggard-cheeked, 

Fronting  her  silent  in  the  glass — 
''Summon  here,"  she  suddenly  said, 
"Before  the  rest  of  my  old  self  pass, 


128  THE  STA  TUE  AND  THE  B  UST. 

"Him,  the  Carver,  a  hand  to  aid, 

Who  fashions  the  clay  no  love  will  change, 

And  fixes  a  beauty  never  to  fade. 

"Let  Eobbia's  craft  so  apt  and  strange 
Arrest  the  remains  of  young  and  fair, 
And  rivet  them  while  the  seasons  range. 

"Make  me  a  face  on  the  window  there, 
Waiting  as  ever,  mute  the  while, 
My  love  to  pass  below  in  the  square! 

"And  let  me  think  that  it  may  beguile 
Dreary  days  which  the  dead  must  spend 
Down  in  their  darkness  under  the  aisle, 

"To  say,  'What  matters  it  at  the  end? 
I  did  no  more  while  my  heart  was  warm 
Than  does  that  image,  my  pale-faced  friend.' 

"Where  is  the  use  of  the  lip's  red  charm, 
The  heaven  of  hair,  the  pride  of  the  brow, 
And  the  blood  that  blues  the  inside  arm — 

"Unless  we  turn,  as  the  soul  knows  how, 
The  earthly  gift  to  an  end  divine? 
A  lady  of  clay  is  as  good,  I  trow." 

But  long  ere  Eobbia's  cornice,  fine 

With  flowers  and  fruits  which  leaves  enlace, 

Was  set  where  now  is  the  empty  shrine — 

(And,  leaning  out  of  a  bright  blue  space, 
As  a  ghost  might  lean  from  a  chink  of  sky, 
The  passionate  pale  lady's  face — 

Eyeing  ever,  with  earnest  eye 

And  quick-turned  neck  at  its  breathless  stretch, 

Some  one  who  ever  is  passing  by — ) 


THE  8TA  TUE  A  ND  THE  B  UST.  129 

The  Duke  had  sighed  like  the  simplest  wretch 
In  Florence,  "Youth — my  dream  escapes! 
Will  its  record  stay!"     And  he  bade  them  fetch 

Some  subtle  moulder  of  brazen  shapes — 
"Can  the  soul,  the  will,  die  out  of  a  man 
Ere  his  body  finds  the  grave  that  gapes? 

"John  of  Douay  shall  effect  my  plan, 
Set  me  on  horseback  here  aloft, 
Alive,  as  the  crafty  sculptor  can, 

"In  the  very  square  I  have  crossed  so  oft: 
That  men  may  admire,  when  future  suns 
Shall  touch  the  eyes  to  a  purpose  soft. 

"While  the  mouth  and  the  brow  stay  brave  in  bronze — 
Admire  and  say,  'When  he  was  alive 
How  he  would  take  his  pleasure  once!' 

"And  it  shall  go  hard  but  I  contrive 

To  listen  the  while,  and  laugh  in  my  tomb 

At  idleness  which  aspires  to  strive." 


So!     While  these  wait  the  trump  of  doom, 
How  do  their  spirits  pass,  I  wonder, 
Nights  and  days  in  the  narrow  room? 

Still,  I  suppose,  they  sit  and  ponder 
What  a  gift  life  was,  ages  ago, 
Six  steps  out  of  the  chapel  yonder. 

Only  they  see  not  God,  I  know, 

Nor  all  that  chivalry  of  his, 

The  soldier -saints  who,  row  on  row, 


130  THE  STATUE  AND  THE  BUST. 

Burn  upward  each  to  his  point  of  bliss — 

Since,  the  end  of  life  being  manifest, 

He  had  burned  his  way  thro'  the  world  to  this. 

I  hear  you  reproach,  "But  delay  was  best, 

For  their  end  was  a  crime." — Oh,  a  crime  will  do 

As  well,  I  reply,  to  serve  for  a  test, 

As  a  virtue  golden  through  and  through, 

Sufficient  to  vindicate  itself 

And  prove  its  worth  at  a  moment's  view! 

Must  a  game  be  played  for  the  sake  of  pelf? 
Where  a  button  goes,  't  were  an  epigram 
To  offer  the  stamp  of  the  very  Guelph. 

The  true  has  no  value  beyond  the  sham: 

As  well  the  counter  as  coin,  I  submit, 

When  your  table  's  a  hat,  and  your  prize,  a  dram. 

Stake  your  counter  as  boldly  every  whit, 

Venture  as  warily,  use  the  same  skill, 

Do  your  best,  whether  winning  or  losing  it, 

If  you  choose  to  play! — is  my  principle. 
Let  a  man  contend  to  the  uttermost 
For  his  life's  set  prize,  be  it  what  it  will ! 

The  counter,  our  lovers  staked,  was  lost 

As  surely  as  if  it  were  lawful  coin : 

And  the  sin  I  impute  to  each  frustrate  ghost 

Is,  the  unlit  lamp  and  the  ungirt  loin, 
Though  the  end  in  sight  was  a  vice,  I  say. 
You  of  the  virtue  (we  issue  join) 
How  strive  you?     De  te,  fabula  ! 


LOVE  A  MONO  THE  R  UINS,  13 1 


LOVE  AMONG  THE  RUINS, 
i. 

WHEKE  the  quiet-colored  end  of  evening  smiles, 

Miles  and  miles, 
On  the  solitary  pastures  where  our  sheep 

Half-asleep 
Tinkle  homeward  thro'  the  twilight,  stray  or  stop 

As  they  crop — 
Was  the  site  once  of  a  city  great  and  gay, 

(So  they  say) 
Of  our  country's  very  capital,  its  prince, 

Ages  since, 
Held  his  court  in,  gathered  councils,  wielding  far 

Peace  or  war. 

n. 

Now, — the  country  does  not  even  boast  a  tree, 

As  you  see, 
To  distinguish  slopes  of  verdure,  certain  rills 

From  the  hills 
Intersect  and  give  a  name  to,  (else  they  run 

Into  one) 
Where  the  domed  and  daring  palace  shot  its  spires 

Up  like  fires 
O'er  the  hundred-gated  circuit  of  a  wall 

Bounding  all, 
Made  of  marble,  men  might  march  on  nor  be  pressed, 

Twelve  abreast. 

in. 

And  such  plenty  and  perfection,  see,  of  grass 

Never  was ! 
Such  a  carpet  as,  this  summer-time,  o'erspreads 

And  embeds 


132  LOVE  AMONG  TEE  RUINS. 

Every  vestige  of  the  city,  guessed  alone, 

Stock  or  stone — 
Where* a  multitude  of  men  breathed  joy  and  woe 

Long  ago; 
Lust  of  glory  pricked  their  hearts  up,  dread  of  shame 

Struck  them  tame; 
And  that  glory  and  that  shame  alike,  the  gold 

Bought  and  sold. 

IV. 

Now, — the  single  little  turret  that  remains 

On  the  plains, 
By  the  caper  overrooted,  by  the  gourd 

Overscored, 
While  the  patching  houseleek's  head  of  blossom  winks 

Through  the  chinks — 
Marks  the  basement  whence  a  tower  in  ancient  time 

Sprang  sublime, 
And  a  burning  ring,  all  round,  the  chariots  traced 

As  they  raced, 
And  the  monarch  and  his  minions  and  his  dames 

Viewed  the  games. 

v. 

And  I  know — while  thus  the  quiet-colored  eve 

Smiles  to  leave 
To  their  folding,  all  our  many  tinkling  fleece 

In  such  peace, 
And  the  slopes  and  rills  in  undistinguished  gray 

Melt  away — 
That  a  girl  with  eager  eyes  and  yellow  hair 

Waits  me  there 
In  the  turret  whence  the  charioteers  caught  sonl 

For  the  goal, 


LOVE  AMONG  THE  RUINS.  133 

When  the  king  looked,  where  she  looks  now,  breathless, 

dumb 
Till  I  come. 

VI. 

But  he  looked  upon  the  city,  every  side, 

Far  and  wide, 
All  the  mountains  topped  with  temples,  all  the  glades 

Colonnades, 
All  the  causeys,  bridges,  aqueducts, — and  then, 

All  the  men ! 
When  I  do  come,  she  will  speak  not,  she  will  stand, 

Either  hand 
On  my  shoulder,  give  her  eyes  the  first  embrace 

Of  my  face, 
Ere  we  rush,  ere  we  extinguish  sight  and  speech 

Each  on  each. 

VII. 

In  one  year  they  sent  a  million  fighters  forth 

South  and  North, 
And  they  built  their  gods  a  brazen  pillar  high 

As  the  sky, 
Yet  reserved  a  thousand  chariots  in  full  force — 

Gold,  of  course. 
Oh  heart!  oh  blood  that  freezes,  blood  that  burns! 

Earth's  returns 
For  whole  centuries  of  folly,  noise  and  sin ! 

Shut  them  in, 
With  their  triumphs  and  their  glories  and  the  rest! 

Love  is  best. 


134:  TIME'S  REVENGES. 


TIME'S   REVENGES. 

I  JVE  a  Friend,  over  the  sea; 

I  like  him,  but  he  loves  me. 

It  all  grew  out  of  the  books  I  write; 

They  find  such  favor  in  his  sight 

That  he  slaughters  you  with  savage  looks 

Because  you  do  n't  admire  my  books. 

He  does  himself  though, — and  if  some  vein 

Were  to  snap  to-night  in  this  heavy  brain, 

To-morrow  month,  if  I  lived  to  try, 

Eound  should  I  just  turn  quietly, 

Or  out  of  the  bedclothes  stretch  my  hand 

Till  I  found  him,  come  from  his  foreign  land 

To  be  my  nurse  in  this  poor  place, 

And  make  my  broth  and  wash  my  face 

And  light  my  fire,  and  all  the  while, 

Bear  with  his  old  good-humored  smile 

That  I  told  him  "Better  have  kept  away 

Than  come  and  kill  me,  night  and  day, 

With,  worse  than  fever  throbs  and  shoots, 

The  creaking  of  his  clumsy  boots." 

I  am  as  sure  that  this  he  would  do, 

As  that  St.  Paul's  is  striking  two. 

And  I  think  I  rather  .  .  .  woe  is  me! 

— Yes,  rather  should  see  him  than  not  see, 

If  lifting  a  hand  would  seat  him  there 

Before  me  in  the  empty  chair 

To-night,  when  my  head  aches  indeed, 

And  I  can  neither  think  .nor  read 

Nor  make  these  purple  fingers  hold 

The  pen;  this  garret  's  freezing  cold! 

And  I  've  a  Lady — there  he  wakes 
The  laughing  fiend  and  prince  of  snakes 


TIME'S  HEVENGES.  135 

Within  me,  at  her  name,  to  pray 

Fate  send  some  creature  in  the  way 

Of  my  love  for  her,  to  be  down-torn, 

Upthrust  and  outward-borne, 

So  I  might  prove  myself  that  sea 

Of  passion  which  I  needs  must  be! 

Call  my  thoughts  false  and  my  fancies  quaint 

And  my  style  infirm  and  its  figures  faint, 

All  the  critics  say,  and  more  blame  yet, 

And  not  one  angry  word  you  get. 

But,  please  you,  wonder  I  would  put 

My  cheek  beneath  that  lady's  foot 

Eather  than  trample  under  mine 

The  laurels  of  the  Florentine, 

And  you  shall  see  how  the  devil  spends 

A  fire  God  gave  for  other  ends ! 

I  tell  you,  I  stride  up  and  down 

This  garret,  crowned  with  love's  best  crown, 

And  feasted  with  love's  perfect  feast, 

To  think  I  kill  for  her,  at  least, 

Body  and  soul  and  peace  and  fame, 

Alike  youth's  end  and  manhood's  aim, 

— So  is  my  spirit,  as  flesh  with  sin, 

Filled  full,  eaten  out  and  in 

With  the  face  of  her,  the  eyes  of  her, 

The  lips,  the  little  chin,  the  stir 

Of  shadow  round  her  mouth ;  and  she 

— I  '11  tell  you, — calmly  wonld  decree 

That  I  should  roast  at  a  slow  fire, 

If  that  would  compass  her  desire 

And  make  her  one  whom  they  invite 

To  the  famous  ball  to-morrow  night. 

There  may  be  heaven;  there  must  be  hell; 
Meantime,  there  is  our  earth  here — well  J 


136  WARING. 

WAKING. 
I. 

i. 

WHAT  's  become  of  Waring 
Since  he  gave  us  all  the  slip, 
Chose  land-travel  or  seafaring, 
Boots  and  chest  or  staff  and  scrip, 
Eather  than  pace  up  and  down 
Any  longer  London  town? 

ii. 

Who  'd  have  guessed  it  from  his  lip 

Or  his  brow's  accustomed  bearing, 

On  the  night  he  thus  took  ship 

Or  started  landward? — little  caring 

For  us,  it  seems,  who  supped  together 

(Friends  of  his  too,  I  remember) 

And  walked  home  thro'  the  merry  weather, 

The  snowiest  in  all  December. 

I  left  his  arm  that  night  myself 

For  what's-his-name's,  the  new  prose-poet 

Who  wrote  the  book  there  on  the  shelf — 

How,  forsooth,  was  I  to  know  it 

If  Waring  meant  to  glide  away 

Like  a  ghost  at  break  of  day? 

Never  looked  he  half  so  gay ! 

in. 

He  was  prouder  than  the  devil  : 
How  he  must  have  cursed  our  revel ! 
Ay,  and  many  other  meetings, 
Indoor  visits,  outdoor  greetings 


WARING.  137 

As  up  and  down  he  paced  this  London, 
With  no  work  done,  but  great  works  undone, 
Where  scarce  twenty  knew  his  name. 
Why  not,  then,  have  earlier  spoken, 
Written,  bustled?     Who  's  to  blame 
If  your  silence  kept  unbroken? 
"True,  but  there  were  sundry  jottings, 
Stray-leaves,  fragments,  blurrs  and  blottings, 
Certain  first  steps  were  achieved 
Already  which — (is  that  your  meaning?) 
Had  well  borne  out  whoe'er  believed 
In  more  to  come!"     But  who  goes  gleaning 
Hedge-side  chance-blades,  while  full-sheaved 
Stand  cornfields  by  him?     Pride,  o'erweening 
Pride  alone,  puts  forth  such  claims 
O'er  the  day's  distinguished  names. 

IV. 

Meantime,  how  much  I  loved  him, 

I  find  out  now  I  've  lost  him. 

I  who  cared  not  if  I  moved  him, 

Who  could  so  carelessly  accost  him, 

Henceforth  never  shall  get  free 

Of  his  ghostly  company, 

His  eyes  that  just  a  little  wink 

As  deep  I  go  into  the  merit 

Of  this  and  that  distinguished  spirit — 

His  cheeks'  raised  color,  soon  to  sink, 

As  long  I  dwell  on  some  stupendous 

And  tremendous  (Heaven  defend  us !) 

Monstr'-inform'-ingens-horrend-ous 

Demoniaco-seraphic 

Penman's  latest  piece  of  graphic. 

Nay,  my  very  wrist  grows  warm 

With  hi  draggings  weight  of  arm. 


138  WARING. 

E'en  so,  swimmingly  appears, 
Through  one's  after-supper  musings, 
Some  lost  lady  of  old  years 
With  her  beauteous  vain  endeavor 
And  goodness  unrepaid  as  ever; 
The  face,  accustomed  to  refusings, 
We,  puppies  that  we  were  .  .  .  Oh  never 
Surely,  nice  of  conscience,  scrupled 
Being  aught  like  false,  forsooth,  to? 
Telling  aught  but  honest  truth  to? 
What  a  sin,  had  we  centupled 
Its  possessor's  grace  and  sweetness ! 
No!  she  heard  in  its  completeness 
Truth,  for  truth  's  a  weighty  matter, 
And,  truth  at  issue,  we  can't  flatter! 
Well,  't  is  done  with;  she  's  exempt 
From  damning  us  thro'  such  a  sally; 
And  so  she  glides,  as  down  a  valley, 
Taking  up  with  her  contempt, 
Past  our  reach ;  and  in,  the  flowers 
Shut  her  unregarded  hours. 

v. 

Oh,  could  I  have  him  back  once  more, 

This  Waring,  but  one  half -day  more! 

Back,  with  the  quiet  face  of  yore, 

So  hungry  for  acknowledgment 

Like  mine!     I  'd  fool  him  to  his  bent. 

Feed,  should  not  he,  to  heart's  content? 

I  'd  say,  "to  only  have  conceived, 

Planned  your  great  works,  apart  from  progress, 

Surpasses  little  works  achieved!" 

I  'd  lie  so,  I  should  be  believed. 

I  'd  make  such  havoc  of  the  claims 

Of  the  day's  distinguished  names 

To  feast  him  with,  as  feasts  an  ogress 


WARING.  139 

Her  feverish  sharp-toothed  gold-crowned  child ! 

Or  as  one  feasts  a  creature  rarely 

Captured  here,  unreconciled 

To  capture ;  and  completely  gives 

Its  pettish  humors  license,  barely 

Eequiring  that  it  lives. 

VI. 

Ichabod,  Ichabod, 

The  glory  is  departed ! 

Travels  Waring  East  away? 

Who,  of  knowledge,  by  hearsay, 

Reports  a  man  upstarted 

Somewhere  as  a  god, 

Hordes  grown  European-hearted, 

Millions  of  the  wild  made  tame 

On  a  sudden  at  his  fame? 

In  Vishnu-land  what  Avatar? 

Or  who  in  Moscow,  toward  the  Czar, 

With  the  demurest  of  footfalls 

Over  the  Kremlin's  pavement  bright 

With  serpentine  and  syenite, 

Steps,  with  five  other  Generals 

That  simultaneously  take  snuff, 

For  each  to  have  pretext  enough 

And  kerchief  wise  unfold  his  sash 

Which,  softness'  self,  is  yet  the  stuff 

To  hold  fast  where  a  steel  chain  snaps, 

And  leave  the  grand  white  neck  no  gash? 

Waring  in  Moscow,  to  those  rough 

Cold  northern  natures  borne  perhaps, 

Like  the  lambwhite  maiden  dear 

From  the  circle  of  mute  kings 

Unable  to  repress  the  tear, 

Each  as  his  sceptre  down  he  flings, 


140  WARING. 

To  Dian's  fame  at  Tanrica, 

Where  now  a  captive  priestess,  she  alway 

Mingles  her  tender  grave  Hellenic  speech 

With  theirs,  tuned  to  the  hailstone-beaten  beach: 

As  pours  some  pigeon,  from  the  myrrhy  lands 

Eapt  by  the  whirlblast  to  fierce  Scythian  strands 

Where  breed  the  swallows,  her  melodious  cry 

Amid  their  barbarous  twitter! 

In  Kussia?     Never!     Spain  were  fitter! 

Ay,  most  likely  't  is  in  Spain 

That  we  and  Waring  meet  again 

Now,  while  he  turns  down  that  cool  narrow  lane 

Into  the  blackness,  out  of  grave  Madrid 

All  fire  and  shine,  abrupt  as  when  there  's  slid 

Its  stiff  gold  blazing  pall 

From  some  black  coffin-lid. 

Or,  best  of  all, 

I  love  to  think 

The  leaving  us  was  just  a  feint; 

Back  here  to  London  did  he  slink, 

And  now  works  on  without  a  wink 

Of  sleep,  and  we  are  on  the  brink 

Of  something  great  in  fresco-paint: 

Some  garret's  ceiling,  walls  and  floor, 

Up  and  down  and  o'er  and  o'er 

He  splashes,  as  none  splashed  before 

Since  great  Caldara  Polidore. 

Or  Music  means  this  land  of  purs 

Some  favor  yet,  to  pity  won 

By  Purcell  from  his  Rosy  Bowers, — 

"Give  me  my  so-long  promised  son, 

Let  Waring  end  what  I  begun!" 

Then  down  he  creeps  and  out  he  steals, 

Only  when  the  night  conceals 

His  face;  in  Kent  't  is  cherry-time, 

Or  hops  are  picking:  or  at  prime 


WARING.  141 

Of  March  he  wanders  as,  too  happy, 

Years  ago  when  he  was  young, 

Some  mild  eve  when  woods  grew  sappy 

And  the  early  moths  had  sprung 

To  life  from  many  a  trembling  sheath 

Woven  the  warm  boughs  beneath; 

While  small  birds  said  to  themselves 

What  should  soon  be  actual  song, 

And  young  gnats,  by  tens  and  twelves 

Made  as  if  they  were  the  throng 

That  crowd  around  and  carry  aloft 

The  sound  they  have  nursed,  so  sweet  and  pure, 

Out  of  a  myriad  noises  soft, 

Into  a  tone  that  can  endure 

Amid  the  noise  of  a  July  noon 

When  all  God's  creatures  crave  their  boon, 

All  at  once,  and  all  in  tune, 

And  get  it,  happy  as  Waring  then, 

Having  first  within  his  ken 

What  a  man  might  do  with  men : 

And  far  too  glad,  in  the  even -glow, 

To  mix  with  the  world  he  meant  to  take 

Into  his  hand,  he  told  you,  so — • 

And  out  of  it  his  world  to  make, 

To  contract  and  to  expand 

As  he  shut  or  oped  his  hand. 

Oh  Waring,  what  's  to  really  be? 

A  clear  stage  and  a  crowd  to  see ! 

Some  Garrick,  say,  out  shall  not  he 

The  heart  of  Hamlet's  mystery  pluck? 

Or,  where  most  unclean  beasts  are  rife, 

Some  Junius — am  I  right? — shall  tuck 

His  sleeve,  and  forth  with  flaying-knife! 

Some  Chatterton  shall  have  the  luck 

Of  calling  Rowley  into  life ! 

Some  one  shall  somehow  run  amuck 


142  WARING. 

With  this  old  world,  for  want  of  strife 
Sound  asleep.     Contrive,  contrive 
To  rouse  us,  Waring!    Who  's  alive? 
Our  men  scarce  seem  in  earnest  now. 
Distinguished  names! — but  }t  is,  somehow, 
As  if  they  played  at  being  names 
Still  more  distinguished,  like  the  games 
Of  children.     Turn  our  sport  to  earnest 
With  a  visage  of  the  sternest ! 
Bring  the  real  times  back,  confessed 
Still  better  than  our  very  best! 

II. 

i. 

"WHEN  I  last  saw  Waring  ..." 
(How  all  turned  to  him  who  spoke ! 
You  saw  Waring?    Truth  or  joke? 
In  land-travel  or  sea-faring?) 

ii. 

"We  were  sailing  by  Triest 

Where  a  day  or  two  we  harbored: 

A  sunset  was  in  the  West, 

When,  looking  over  the  vessel's  side, 

One  of  our  company  espied 

A  sudden  speck  to  larboard. 

And  as  a  sea-duck  flies  and  swims 

At  once,  so  came  the  light  craft  up, 

With  its  sole  lateen  sail  that  trims 

And  turns  (the  water  round  its  rims 

Dancing,  as  round  a  sinking  cup) 

And  by  us  like  a  fish  it  curled, 

And  drew  itself  up  close  beside, 

Its  great  sail  on  the  instant  furled, 

And  o'er  its  thwarts  a  shrill  voice  cried, 


WARING.  143 

(A  neck  as  bronzed  as  a  Lascar's) 

'Buy  wine  of  us,  you  English  Brig? 

Or  fruit,  tobacco  and  cigars? 

A  pilot  for  you  to  Triest? 

Without  one,  look  you  ne'er  so  big, 

They'll  never  let  you  up  the  bay ! 

We  natives  should  know  best.' 

I  turned,  and  'just  those  fellows'  way/ 

Our  captain  said,  'The  'long-shore  thieves 

Are  laughing  at  us  in  their  sleeves.' 

in. 

"In  truth,  the  boy  leaned  laughing  back; 
And  one,  half-hidden  by  his  side 
Under  the  furled  sail,  soon  I  spied, 
With  great  grass  hat  and  kerchief  black, 
Who  looked  up  with  his  kingly  throat, 
Said  somewhat,  while  the  other  shook 
His  hair  back  from  his  eyes  to  look 
Their  longest  at  us;  then  the  boat, 
I  know  not  how,  turned  sharply  round, 
Laying  her  whole  side  on  the  sea 
As  a  leaping  fish  does;  from  the  lee 
Into  the  weather,  cut  somehow 
Her  sparkling  path  beneath  our  bow, 
And  so  went  off,  as  with  a  bound, 
Into  the  rosy  and  golden  half 
0'  the  sky,  to  overtake  the  sun 
And  reach  the  shore,  like  the  sea-calf 
Its  singing  cave;  yet  I  caught  one 
Glance  ere  away  the  boat  quite  passed, 
And  neither  time  nor  toil  could  mar 
Those  features:  so  I  saw  the  last 
Of  Waring!" — You?     Oh,  never  star 


144  THE  ITALIAN  IN  ENGLAND. 

Was  lost  here  but  it  rose  afar! 

Look  East,  where  whole  new  thousands  are! 

In  Vishnu-land  what  Avatar? 


HOME   THOUGHTS,   FROM  ABROAD. 

i. 

OH,  to  be  in  England  now  that  April  's  there, 
And  whoever  wakes  in  England  sees,  some  morning  un- 
aware, 

That  the  lowest  boughs  and  the  brushwood  sheaf 
Round  the  elm-tree  bole  are  in  tiny  leaf, 
While  the  chaffinch  sings  on  the  orchard  bough 
In  England — now! 
And  after  April,  when  May  follows 
And  the  white-throat  builds,  and  all  the  swallows! 
Hark,  where  my  blossomed  pear-tree  in  the  hedge 
Leans  to  the  field  and  scatters  on  the  clover 
Blossoms  and  dewdrops — at  the  bent  spray's  edge — 
That 's  the  wise  thrush :  he  sings  each  song  twice  over 
Lest  you  should  think  he  never  could  recapture 
The  first  fine  careless  rupture ! 
And  though  the  fields  look  rough  with  hoary  dew, 
And  will  be  gay  when  noontide  wakes  anew 
The  buttercups,  the  little  children's  dower 
— Far  brighter  than  this  gaudy  melon-flower! 


THE  ITALIAN  IN  ENGLAND. 

THAT  second  time  they  hunted  me 
From  hill  to  plain,  from  shore  to  sea, 
And  Austria,  hounding  far  and  wide 
Her  blood-hounds  thro'  the  country-side 


THE  ITALIAN  IN  ENGLAND.  145 

Breathed  hot  and  instant  on  my  trace. — 

I  made  six  days  a  hiding-place 

Of  that  dry  green  old  aqueduct 

Where  I  and  Charles,  when  boys,  have  plucked 

The  fire-flies  from  the  roof  above, 

Bright  creeping  thro'  the  moss  they  love: 

— How  long  it  seems  since  Charles  was  lost! 

Six  days  the  soldiers  crossed  and  crossed 

The  country  in  my  very  sight; 

And  when  that  peril  ceased  at  night, 

The  sky  broke  out  in  red  dismay 

With  signal  fires;  well,  there  I  lay 

Close  covered  o'er  in  my  recess, 

Up  to  the  neck  in  ferns  and  cress, 

Thinking  on  Metternich  our  friend, 

And  Charles's  miserable  end, 

And  much  beside,  two  days;  the  third, 

Hunger  o'ercame  me  when  I  heard 

The  peasants  from  the  village  go 

To  work  among  the  maize;  you  know, 

With  us  in  Lombardy,  they  bring 

Provisions  packed  on  mules,  a  string, 

With  little  bells  that  cheer  their  task, 

And  casks,  and  boughs  on  every  cask 

To  keep  the  sun's  heat  from  the  wine; 

These  I  let  pass  in  jingling  line, 

And,  close  on  them,  dear  noisy  crew, 

The  peasants  from  the  village,  too; 

For  at  the  very  rear  would  troop 

Their  wives  and  sisters  in  a  group 

To  help,  I  knew;  when  these  had  passed, 

I  threw  my  glove  to  strike  the  last, 

Taking  the  chance:  she  did  not  start, 

Much  less  cry  out,  but  stooped  apart, 

One  instant  rapidly  glanced  round, 

And  saw  me  beckon  from  the  ground; 


H6  THE  ITALIAN  IN  ENGLAND. 

A  wild  bush  grows  and  hides  my  crypt; 
She  picked  my  glove  up  while  she  stripped 
A  branch  off,  then  rejoined  the  rest 
With  that;  my  glove  lay  in  her  breast: 
Then  I  drew  breath;  they  disappeared: 
It  was  for  Italy  I  feared. 

An  hour,  and  she  returned  alone 
Exactly  where  my  glove  was  thrown. 
Meanwhile  came  many  thoughts;  on  me 
Rested  the  hopes  of  Italy ; 
I  had  devised  a  certain  tale 
Which,  when  't  was  told  her,  could  not  fail 
Persuade  a  peasant  of  its  truth; 
I  meant  to  call  a  freak  of  youth 
This  hiding,  and  give  hopes  of  pay, 
And  no  temptation  to  betray. 
But  when  I  saw  that  woman's  face, 
Its  calm  simplicity  of  grace, 
Our  Italy's  own  attitude 
In  which  she  walked  thus  far,  and  stood, 
Planting  each  naked  foot  so  firm, 
To  crush  the  snake  and  spare  the  worm — 
At  first  sight  of  her  eyes,  I  said, 
"I  am  that  man  upon  whose  head 
They  fix  the  price,  because  I  hate 
The  Austrians  over  us :  the  State 
Will  give  you  gold — oh,  gold  so  much! — 
If  you  betray  me  to  their  clutch, 
And  be  your  death,  for  aught  I  know, 
If  once  they  find  you  saved  their  foe. 
Now,  you  must  bring  me  food  and  drink, 
And  also  paper,  pen  and  ink, 
And  carry  safe  what  I  shall  write 
To  Padua,  which  you  '11  reach  at  night 


THE  ITALIAN  IN  ENGLAND. 

Before  the  duomo  shuts;  go  in, 

And  wait  till  Tenebrae  begin ; 

Walk  to  the  third  confessional, 

Between  the  pillar  and  the  wall, 

And  kneeling  whisper,  Whence  comes  peace  ? 

Say  it  a  second  time,  then  cease; 

And  if  the  voice  inside  returns, 

From  Christ  and  Freedom;  what  concerns 

Tlie  cause  of  Peace  ? — for  answer,  slip 

My  letter  where  you  placed  your  lip; 

Then  come  back  happy  we  have  done 

Our  mother  service — I,  the  son, 

As  you  the  daughter  of  our  land!" 

Three  mornings  more,  she  took  her  stand 
In  the  same  place,  with  the  same  eyes: 
I  was  no  surer  of  sun-rise 
Than  of  her  coming:  we  conferred 
Of  her  own  prospects,  and  I  heard 
She  had  a  lover — stout  and  tall, 
She  said — then  let  her  eyelids  fall, 
"He  could  do  much" — as  if  some  doubt 
Entered  her  heart, — then,  passing  out, 
"She  could  not  speak  for  others,  who 
Had  other  thoughts;  herself  she  knew:" 
And  so  she  brought  me  drink  and  food. 
After  four  days,  the  scouts  pursued 
Another  path ;  at  last  arrived 
The  help  my  Paduan  friends  contrived 
To  furnish  me:  she  brought  the  news. 
For  the  first  time  I  could  not  choose 
But  kiss  her  hand,  and  lay  my  own 
Upon  her  head — "This  faith  was  shown 
To  Italy,  our  mother;  she 
Uses  my  hand  and  blesses  thee," 


148  THE  IT  A  LI  A  N  IN  ENGLAND. 

She  followed  down  to  the  sea-shore; 
I  left  and  never  saw  her  more. 

How  very  long  since  I  have  thought 
Concerning — much  less  wished  for — aught 
Beside  the  good  of  Italy, 
For  which  I  live  and  mean  to  die! 
I  never  was  in  love;  and  since 
Charles  proved  false,  what  shall  now  convince 
My  inmost  heart  I  have  a  friend? 
However,  if  I  pleased  to  spend 
Heal  wishes  on  myself — say,  three — 
I  know  at  least  what  one  should  be. 
I  would  grasp  Metternich  until 
I  felt  his  red  wet  throat  distil 
In  blood  thro'  these  two  hands.     And  next, 
— Nor  much  for  that  am  I  perplexed — 
Charles,  perjured  traitor,  for  his  part, 
Should  die  slow  of  a  broken  heart 
Under  his  new  employers.     Last 
— Ah,  there,  what  should  I  wish?     For  fast 
Do  I  grow  old  and  out  of  strength. 
If  I  resolved  to  seek  at  length 
My  father's  house  again,  how  scared 
They  all  would  look,  and  unprepared ! 
My  brothers  live  in  Austria's  pay 
— Disowned  me  long  ago,  men  say; 
And  all  my  early  mates  who  used 
To  praise  me  so — perhaps  induced 
More  than  one  early  step  of  mine — 
Are  turning  wise:  while  some  opine 
"Freedom  grows  license,"  some  suspect 
"Haste  breeds  delay,"  and  recollect 
They  always  said,  such  premature 
Beginnings  never  could  endure ! 


THE  ENGLISHMAN  IN  ITAL  T.  149 

So,  with  a  sullen  "All  's  for  best," 
The  land  seems  settling  to  its  rest. 
I  think  then,  I  should  wish  to  stand 
This  evening  in  that  dear,  lost  land, 
Over  the  sea  the  thousand  miles, 
And  know  if  yet  that  woman  smiles 
With  the  calm  smile;  some  little  farm 
She  lives  in  there,  no  doubt:  what  harm 
If  I  sat  on  the  door-side  bench, 
And  while  her  spindle  made  a  trench 
Fantastically  in  the  dust, 
Inquired  of  all  her  fortunes — just 
Her  children's  ages  and  their  names, 
And  what  may  be  the  husband's  aims 
For  each  of  them.     I  'd  talk  this  out, 
And  sit  there,  for  an  hour  about, 
Then  kiss  her  hand  once  more,  and  lay 
Mine  on  her  head,  and  go  my  way. 

So  much  for  idle  wishing — how 
It  steals  the  time!     To  business  now. 


THE  ENGLISHMAN  IN  ITALY. 

PIANO   DI   SORRENTO. 

FoRitr,  Fortii,  my  beloved  one,  sit  here  by  my  side, 

On  my  knees  put  up  both  little  feet!    I  was  sure,  if  I 

tried, 
I  could  make  you  laugh  spite  of  Scirocco.     Now,  open 

your  eyes, 
Let  me  keep  you  amused,  till  he  vanish  in  black  from  the 

skies, 

With  telling  my  memories  over,  as  you  tell  your  beads; 
All  the  Plain  saw  me  gather,  I  garland — the  flowers  or  the 

weeds. 


150  TEE  ENGLISHMAN  IN  ITAL  T. 

Time  for  rain',  for  your  long  hot  dry  Autumn  had  net- 
worked with  brown 
The  white  skin  of  each  grape  on  the  bunches,  marked 

like  a  quail  's  crown, 
Those  creatures  you  make  such  account  of,  whose  heads, 

— specked  with  white 
Over  brown  like  a  great  spider's  back,  as  I  told  you  last 

night,— 
Your  mother  bites  off  for  her  supper.     Red-ripe  as  could 

be, 
Pomegranates  were  chapping  and  splitting  in  halves  on 

the  tree. 
And  betwixt  the  loose  walls  of  great  flintstone,  or  in  the 

thick  dust 
On  the  path,  or  straight  out  of  the  rock-side,  wherever 

could  thrust 
Some  burnt  sprig  of  bold  hardy  rock-flower  its  yellow  face 

up, 
For  the  prize  were  great  butterflies  fighting,  some  five  for 

one  cup. 
So,  I  guessed,  ere  I  got  up  this  morning,  what  change  was 

in  store, 
By  the  quick  rustle-down  of  the  quail-nets  which  woke  me 

before 
I  could  open  my  shutter,  made  fast  with  a  bough  and  a 

stone, 
And  look  through  the  twisted  dead  vine-twigs,  sole  lattice 

that  's  known. 
Quick  and  sharp  rang  the  rings  down  the  net-poles,  while, 

busy  beneath, 
Your  priest  and  his  brother  tugged  at  them,  the  rain  in 

their  teeth. 
And  out  upon  all  the  flat  house-roofs,  where  split  figs  lay 

drying, 
The  girls  took  the  frails  under  cover:  nor  use  seemed  in 

trying 


THE  ENGLISHMAN  IN  ITAL  Y.  151 

To  get  out  the  boats  and  go  fishing,  for,  under  the  cliff, 
Fierce  the   black  water  frothed  o'er  the  blind-rock.     No 

seeing  our  skiff 

Arrive  about  noon  from  Amalfi ! — our  fisher  arrive, 
And  pitch  down  his  basket  before  us,  all  trembling  alive, 
"With  pink  and  gray  jellies,  your  sea-fruit;  you  touch  the 

strange  lumps, 
And  mouths  gape  there,  eyes  open,  all  manner  of  horns 

and  of  humps, 
Which  only  the  fisher  looks  grave  at,  while  round  him 

like  imps, 
Cling  screaming  the  children  as  naked  and  brown  as  his 

shrimps; 

Himself  too  as  bare  to  the  middle — you  see  round  his  neck 
The  string  and  its  brass  coin  suspended,  that  saves  him 

from  wreck. 

But  to-day  not  a  boat  reached  Salerno:  so  back,  to  a  man, 
Came  our  friends,  with  whose  help  in  the  vineyards  grape- 
harvest  began. 
In  the  vat,  halfway  up  in  our  house-side,  like  blood  the 

juice  spins, 

While  your  brother  all  bare-legged  is  dancing  till  breath- 
less he  grins 

Dead-beaten  in  effort  on  effort  to  keep  the  grapes  under, 
Since  still,  when  he  seems  all  but  master,  in  pours  the 

fresh  plunder 
From  girls  who  keep  coming  and  going  with  basket  011 

shoulder, 
And  eyes  shut  against  the  rain's  driving;  your  girls  that 

are  older, —  • 

For  under  the  hedges  of  aloe,  and  where,  on  its  bed 
Of  the  orchard's  black  mould,  the  love-apple  lies  pulpy 

and  red, 
All  the  young  ones  are  kneeling  and  filling  their  laps  with 

the  snails 


152  THE  ENGLISHMA N  IN  ITAL  F. 

Tempted  out  by  this  first  rainy  weather, — your  best  of 

regales, 
As  to-night  will  be  proved  to  my  sorrow,  when,  supping 

•  in  state, 
We  shall  feast  our  grape-gleaners  (two  dozen,  three  over 

one  plate) 

With  lasagne  so  tempting  to  swallow  in  slippery  ropes, 
And  gourds  fried  in  great  purple  slices,  that  color  of  popes. 
Meantime,  see  the  grape  bunch  they  've  brought  you:  the 

rain-water  slips 
O'er  the  heavy  blue  bloom  on  each  globe  which  the  wasp 

to  your  lips 
Still  follows  with  fretful  persistence.     Nay,  taste,  while 

awake, 
This  half  of  a  curd-white  smooth  cheese-ball  that  peels, 

flake  by  flake, 
Like  an  onion,  each  smoother  and  whiter:  next,  sip  this 

weak  wine 
From  the  thin  green  glass  flask,  with  its  stopper,  a  leaf  of 

the  vine: 
And  end  with  the  prickly  pear's  red  flesh  that  leaves  thro' 

its  juice 
The  stony  black  seeds  on  your  pearl-teeth. 

Scirocco  is  loose ! 
Hark,  the  quick,  whistling  pelt  of  the  olives  which,  thick 

in  one's  track, 
Tempt  the  stranger  to  pick  up  and  bite  them,  tho'  not  yet 

half  black! 
How  the  old  twisted  olive  trunks  shudder,  the  medlars  let 

fall 
Their  hard  fruit,  and  the  brittle  great  fig-trees  snap  off, 

figs  and  all, 
For  here  comes  the  whole  of  the  tempest!  no  refuge,  but 

creep 
Back  again  to  my  side  and  my  shoulder,  and  listen  or  sleep. 


THE  ENGLISHMAN  IN  ITAL  Y.  153 

Oh  how  will  your  country  show  next  week,  when  all  the 

vine-boughs 
Have  been  stripped  of  their  foliage  to  pasture  the  mules 

and  the  cows? 
Last  eve,  I  rode  over  the  mountains;  your  brother,  my 

guide, 
Soon  left  me,  to  feast  on  the  myrtles  that  offered,  each 

side, 
Their  fruit-balls,  black,  glossy,  and  luscious, — or  strip 

from  the  sorbs 

A  treasure,  or,  rosy  and  wondrous,  those  hairy  gold  orbs! 
But  my  mule  picked  his  sure  sober  path  out,  just  stopping 

to  neigh 
When  he  recognized  down  in  the  valley  Ms  mates  on  their 

way 
With  the  faggots  and  barrels  of  water.     And  soon  we 

emerged 
From  the  plain  where  the  woods  could  scarce  follow;  and 

still,  as  we  urged 
Our  way,  the  woods  wondered,  and  left  us.     Up,  np  still 

we  trudged, 
Though  the  wild  path  grew  wilder  each  instant,  and  place 

was  e'en  grudged 
'Mid  the  rock-chasms  and  piles  of  loose  stones  like  the 

loose  broken  teeth 
Of  some  monster  which  climbed  there  to  die,  from  the 

ocean  beneath — 
Place  was  grudged  to  the  silver-gray  fume-weed  that  clung 

to  the  path, 
And  dark  rosemary  ever  a-dying,  that,  'spite  the  wind's 

wrath 
So  loves  the  salt  rock's  face  to  seaward:   and  lentisks  as 

staunch 

To  the  stone  where  they  root  and   bear  berries:    and 
what  shows  a  branch 


154  THE  ENGLISHMAN  IN  IT  A  L  T. 

Coral-colored,  transparent,  with  circlets  of  pale  sea-green 

leaves; 
Over  all  trod  my  mule  with  the  caution  of  gleaners  o'er 

sheaves. 

Still,  foot  after  foot  like  a  lady,  still,  round  after  round, 
He  climbed  to  the  top  of  Calvano:   and  God's  own  pro- 
found 
Was  above  me,  and  round  me  the  mountains,  and  under, 

the  sea, 
And  within  me  my  heart  to  bear  witness  what  was  and 

shall  be. 

Oh,  heaven  and  the  terrible  crystal !  no  rampart  excludes 
Your  eye  from  the  life  to  be  lived  in  the  blue  solitudes. 
Oh,   those    mountains,    their    infinite    movement!    still 

moving  with  you ; 
For,  ever  some  new  head  and  breast  of  them  thrusts  into 

view 

To  observe  the  intruder;  you  see  it,  if  quickly  you  turn 
And,  before  they  escape  you,  surprise  them.     They  grudge 

you  should  learn 
How  the  soft  plains  they  look  on,  lean  over  and  love  (they 

pretend) 
— Cower  beneath  them,  the  black  sea-pine  crouches,  the 

wild  fruit-trees  bend, 
E'en  the  myrtle-leaves  curl,  shrink  and  shut:  all  is  silent 

and  grave: 
'T  is  a  sensual  and  timorous  beauty, — how  fair!   but  a 

slave. 
So,  I  turned  to  the  sea;  and  there  slumbered,  as  greenly 

as  ever, 

Those  isles  of  the  siren,  your  Galli.     No  ages  can  sever 
The  Three,  nor  enable  their  sister  to  join  them, — halfway 
On  the  voyage,  she  looked  at  Ulysses — no  farther  to-day! 
Tho'  the  small  one,  just  launched  in  the  wave,  watches 

breast-high  and  steady 


THE  ENGLISHMAN  IN  ITALY.  155 

From   under  the  rock  her  bold    sister,  swum    halfway 

already. 
Fortii,  shall  we  sail  there  together,  and  see,  from  the 

sides, 
Quite  new  rocks  show  their  faces,  new  haunts  where  the 

siren  abides? 
Shall  we  sail  round  and  round  them,  close  over  the  rocks, 

tho'  unseen, 

That  ruffle  the  gray  glassy  water  to  glorious  green? 
Then  scramble  from  splinter  to  splinter,  reach  land,  and 

explore, 
On  the  largest,  the  strange  square  black  turret  with  never 

a  door, 
Just  a  loop  to  admit  the  quick  lizards?    Then,  stand 

there  and  hear 

The  birds'  quiet  singing,  that  tells  us  what  life  is,  so  clear? 
— The  secret  they  sang  to  Ulysses  when,  ages  ago, 
He  heard  and  he  knew  this  life's  secret,  I  hear  and  I 

know. 

Ah,  see!     The  sun  breaks  o'er  Calvano.     He  strikes  the 

great  gloom 

And  flutters  it  o'er  the  mount's  summit  in  airy  gold  fume. 
All  is  over.     Look  out,  see,  the  gipsy,  our  tinker  and 

smith, 
Has  arrived,  set  up  bellows  and  forge,  and  down-squatted 

forthwith 
To  his  hammering  under  the  wall  there !     One  eye  keeps 

aloof 

The  urchins  that  itch  to  be  putting  his  jews'-harp  to  proof, 
While  the  other,  thro'  locks  of  curled  wire,  is  watching 

how  sleek 
Shines  the  hog,  come  to  share  in  the  windfall.     Chew, 

abbot's  own  cheek ! 
All  is  over.     Wake  up  and  come  out  now,  and  down  let 

us  go, 


156  THE  ENGLISHMAN  IN  ITAL  7. 

And  see  the  fine  things  got  in  order  at  church  for  the 

show 
Of  the  Sacrament,  set  forth  this  evening.     To-morrow  's 

the  Feast 

Of  the  Rosary's  Virgin,  by  no  means  of  Virgins  the  least: 
As  you  '11  hear  in  the  off-hand  discourse  which  (all  nature, 

no  art) 
The  Dominican  brother,  these  three  weeks,  was  getting  by 

heart. 
Not  a  pillar  nor  post  but  is  dizened  with  red  and  blue 

papers; 
All  the  roof  waves  with  ribbons,  each  altar  a-blaze  ;with 

long  tapers. 
But  the  great  masterpiece  is  the  scaffold  rigged  glorious  to 

hold 
All  the  fiddlers  and  fifers  and  drummers  and  trumpeters 

bold 
Not  afraid  of  Bellini  nor  Auber:  who,  when  the  priest 's 

hoarse, 
Will  strike  us  up  something  that  's  brisk  for  the  feast's 

second  course. 

And  then  will  the  flaxen-wigged  Image  be  carried  in  pomp 
Thro'  the  plain,  while,  in  gallant  procession,  the  priests 

mean  to  stomp. 
All  round  the  glad  church  lie  old  bottles  with  gunpowder 

stopped, 
Which  will  be,  when  the  Image  re-enters,   religiously 

popped. 
And  at  night  from  the  crest  of  Calvano  great  bonfires  will 

hang: 
On  the  plain  will  the  trumpets  join  chorus,  and  more 

poppers  bang. 

At  all  events,  come — to  the  garden,  as  far  as  the  wall; 
See  me  tap  with  a  hoe  on  the  plaster,  till  out  there  shall 

fall 
A  scorpion  with  wide  angry  nippers ! 


UP  AT  A  VILLA.  157 

— "Such  trifles!"  you  say? 

Fortu,  in  my  England  at  home,  men  meet  gravely  to-day 
And  debate,  if  abolishing  Corn-laws  be  righteous  and  wise ! 
— If  't  were  proper,  Scirrocco  should  vanish  in  black  from 
the  skies! 


UP  AT  A  VILLA— DOWN  IN  THE  CITY. 

(AS  DISTINGUISHED  BY  AN  ITALIAN  PERSON  OF  QUALITY.) 

I. 

HAD  I  but  plenty  of  money,  money  enough  and  to  spare, 
The  house  for  me,  no  doubt,  were  a  house  in  the  city- 
square; 

Ah,  such  a  life,  such  a  life,  as  one  leads  at  the  window 
there ! 

ii. 

Something  to  see,  by  Bacchus,  something  to  hear,  at  least ! 
There,  the  whole  day  long,  one's  life  is  a  perfect  feast; 
While  up  at  a  villa  one  lives,  I  maintain  it,  no  more  than 
a  beast. 

in. 

Well  now,  look  at  our  villa!  stuck  like  the  horn  of  a  bull 
Just  on  a  mountain  edge  as  bare  as  the  creature's  skull, 
Save  a  mere  shag  of  a  bush  with  hardly  a  leaf  to  pull ! 
— I  scratch  my  own,  sometimes,  to  see  if  the  hair  's  turned 
wool. 

IV. 

But  the  city,  oh  the  city — the  square  with  the  houses! 

Why? 
They  are  stone-faced,  white  as  a  curd,  there  's  something 

to  take  the  eye ! 


158  UP  AT  A  VILLA. 

Houses  in  four  straight  lines,  not  a  single  front  awry; 
You  watch  who  crosses  and  gossips,  who  saunters,  who 

hurries  by; 
Green  blinds,  as  a  matter  of  course,  to  draw  when  the  sun 

gets  high ; 
And  the  shops  with  fanciful  signs  which   are  painted 

properly. 

v. 

What  of  a  villa?  Though  winter  be  over  in  March  by 
rights, 

'T  is  May  perhaps  ere  the  snow  shall  have  withered  well 
off  the  heights: 

You  've  the  brown  ploughed  land  before,  where  the  oxen 
steam  and  wheeze, 

And  the  hills  over-smoked  behind  by  the  faint  gray  olive- 
trees. 

VI. 

Is  it  better  in  May,  I  ask  you?    You  've  summer  all  at 

once; 

In  a  day  he  leaps  complete  with  a  few  strong  April  suns. 
'Mid  the  sharp  short  emerald  wheat,  scarce  risen  three 

fingers  well, 
The  wild  tulip,  at  end  of  its  tube,  blows  out  its  great  red 

bell 
Like  a  thin  clear  bubble  of  blood,  for  the  children  to  pick 

and  sell. 

VII. 

Is  it  ever  hot  in  the  square?  There  's  a  fountain  to  spout 
and  splash ! 

In  the  shade  it  sings  and  springs;  in  the  shine  such  foam- 
bows  flash 

On  the  horses  with  curling  fish-tails,  that  prance  and 
paddle  and  pash 


VP  AT  A  VILLA.  159 

Round  the  lady  atop  in  her  conch — fifty  gazers  do  not 

abash, 
Though  all  that  she  wears  is  some  weeds  round  her  waist 

in  a  sort  of  sash. 

VIII. 

All  the  year  long  art  the  villa,  nothing  to  see  though  you 

linger, 
Except  yon  cypress  that  points  like  death's  lean  lifted 

forefinger. 
Some  think  fireflies  pretty,  when  they  mix  i'  the  corn  and 

mingle, 
Or  thrid  the  stinking  hemp  till  the  stalks  of  it  seem 

a-tingle. 
Late  August  or  early  September,  the  stunning  cicala  is 

shrill, 
And  the  bees  keep  their  tiresome  whine  round  the  resinous 

firs  on  the  hill. 
Enough  of  the  seasons, — I  spare  you  the  months  of  the 

fever  and  chill. 

IX. 

Ere  you  open  your  eyes  in  the  city,  the  blessed  church- 
bells  begin : 

No  sooner  the  bells  leave  off  than  the  diligence  rattles  in : 

You  get  the  pick  of  the  news,  and  it  costs  you  never  a  pin. 

By  and  by  there  's  the  travelling  doctor  gives  pills,  lets 
blood,  draws  teeth; 

Or  the  Pulcinello-trumpet  breaks  up  the  market  beneath. 

At  the  post-office  such  a  scene-picture — the  new  play, 
piping  hot! 

And  a  notice  how,  only  this  morning,  three  liberal  thieves 
were  shot. 

Above  it,  behold  the  Archbishop's  most  fatherly  of  rebukes, 

And  beneath,  with  his  crown  and  his  lion,  some  little  new 
law  of  the  Duke's! 


160  VP  AT  A  VILLA. 

Or  a  sonnet  with  flowery  marge,  to  the  Eeverend  Don 

So-and-so 
Who    is    Dante,    Boccaccio,   Petrarca,    St.   Jerome    and 

Cicero, 
"And  moreover,"  (the  sonnet  goes  rhyming,)  "the  skirts 

of  St.  Paul  has  reached, 
Having  preached  us  those  six  Lent-lectures  more  unctuous 

than  ever  he  preached." 
Noon   strikes, — here   sweeps  the   procession!    our   Lady 

borne  smiling  and  smart, 
"With  a  pink  gauze  gown  all  spangles,  and  seven  swords 

stuck  in  her  heart! 

Bang-whang-ivliang  goes  the  drum,  tootle-te-tootle  the  fife; 
No  keeping  one's  haunches  still :  it  's  the  greatest  pleasure 

in  life. 

x. 

But  bless  you,  it 's  dear — it  *s  dear!  fowls,  wine,  at  double 

the  rate. 
They  have  clapped  a  new  tax  upon  salt,  and  what  oil  pays 

passing  the  gate 
It  's  a  horror  to  think  of.     And  so,  the  villa  for  me,  not 

the  city! 
Beggars  can  scarcely  be  choosers:  but  still — ah,  the  pity, 

the  pity ! 
Look,  two  and  two  go  the  priests,  then  the  monks  with 

cowls  and  sandals, 
And  the  penitents  dressed  in  white  shirts,  a-holding  the 

yellow  candles; 
One,  he  carries  a  flag  up  straight,  and  another  a  cross 

with  handles, 
And  the  Duke's  guard  brings  up  the  rear,  for  the  better 

prevention  of  scandals : 

Bang-ivhang-whang  goes  the  drum,  tootle-te-tootle  the  fife. 
Oh,  a  day  in  the  city-square,  there  is  no  such  pleasure  in 

life! 


PICTOR  IQNOTUS.  161 

PICTOR  IGNOTUS. 

FLORENCE,   15 — . 

I  COULD  have  painted  pictures  like  that  youth's 

Ye  praise  so.     How  my  soul  springs  up  \     No  bar 
Stayed  me — ah,  thought  which  saddens  while  it  soothes! 

— Never  did  fate  forbid  me,  star  by  star, 
To  outburst  on  your  night,  with  all  my  gift 

Of  fires  from  God  •  nor  would  my  flesh  have  shrunk 
From  seconding  my  soul,  with  eyes  uplift 

And  wide  to  heaven,  or,  straight  like  thunder,  sunk 
To  the  centre,  of  an  instant;  or  around 

Turned  calmly  and  inquisitive,  to  scan 
The  licence  and  the  limit,  space  and  bound, 

Allowed  to  truth  made  visible  in  man. 
And,  like  that  youth  ye  praise  so,  all  I  saw, 

Over  the  canvas  could  my  hand  have  flung, 
Each  face  obedient  to  its  passion's  law, 

Each  passion  clear  proclaimed  without  a  tongue; 
"Whether  Hope  rose  at  once  in  all  the  blood, 

A-tiptoe  for  the  blessing  of  embrace, 
Or  Rapture  drooped  the  eyes,  as  when  her  brood 

Pull  down  the  nesting  dove's  heart  to  its  place; 
Or  Confidence  lit  swift  the  forehead  up, 

And  locked  the  mouth  fast,  like  a  castle  braved, — 
0  human  faces,  hath  it  spilt,  my  cup? 

What  did  ye  give  me  that  I  have  not  saved? 
Nor  will  I  say  I  have  not  dreamed  (how  well!) 

Of  going — I,  in  each  new  picture, — forth, 
As,  making  new  hearts  beat  and  bosoms  swell, 

To  Pope  or  Kaiser,  East,  West,  South,  or  North, 
Bound  for  the  calmly  satisfied  great  State, 

Or  glad  aspiring  little  burgh,  it  went, 
Flowers  cast  upon  the  car  which  bore  the  freight, 

Through  old  streets  named  afresh  from  the  event, 


162  PICTOR  IGNOTUS. 

Till  it  reached  home,  where  learned  age  should  greet 

My  face,  and  youth,  the  star  not  yet  distinct 
Above  his  hair,  lie  learning  at  my  feet! — 

Oh,  thus  to  live,  I  and  my  picture,  linked 
With  love  about,  and  praise,  till  life  should  end, 

And  then  not  go  to  heaven,  but  linger  here, 
Here  on  my  earth,  earth's  every  man  my  friend, 

The  thought  grew  frightful,  't  was  so  wildly  dear! 
But  a  voice  changed  it.     Glimpses  of  such  sights 

Have  scared  me,  like  the  revels  through  a  door 
Of  some  strange  house  of  idols  at  its  rites! 

This  world  seemed  not  the  world  it  was,  before: 
Mixed  with  my  loving  trusting  ones,  there  trooped 

.     .     .     Who  summoned  those  cold  faces  that  begun 
To  press  on  me  and  judge  me?     Though  I  stooped 

Shrinking,  as  from  the  soldiery  a  nun, 
They  drew  me  forth,  and  spite  of  me     .     .     .     enough. 

These  buy  and  sell  our  pictures,  take  and  give, 
Count  them  for  garniture  and  household-stuff, 

And  where  they  live  needs  must  our  pictures  live 
And  see  their  faces,  listen  to  their  prate, 

Partakers  of  their  daily  pettiness, 
Discussed  of, — "This  I  love,  or  this  I  hate, 

This  likes  me  more,  and  this  affects  me  less!" 
Wherefore  I  chose  my  portion.     If  at  whiles 

My  heart  sinks,  as  monotonous  I  paint 
These  endless  cloisters  and  eternal  aisles 

Writh  the  same  series,  Virgin,  Babe,  and  Saint, 
With  the  same  cold  calm  beautiful  regard, — 

At  least  no  merchant  traffics  in  my  heart; 
The  sanctuary's  gloom  at  least  shall  ward 

Vain  tongues  from  where  my  pictures  stand  apart: 
Only  prayer  breaks  the  silence  of  the  shrine 

While,  blackening  in  the  daily  candle-smoke, 
They  moulder  on  the  damp  wall's  travertine, 

'Mid  echoes  the  light  footstep  never  woke. 


FRA  LIPPO  LIPPL  163 

So,  die  my  pictures!  surely,  gently  die! 

Oh  youth,  men  praise  so, — holds  their  praise  its  worth? 
Blown  harshly,  keeps  the  trump  its  golden  cry? 

Tastes  sweet  the  water  with  such  specks  of  earth? 


FRA   LIPPO   LIPPL 

I  AM  poor  brother  Lippo,  by  your  leave 

You  need  not  clap  your  torches  to  my  face. 

Zooks,  what's  to  blame?  you  think  you  see  a  monk! 

What,  't  is  past  midnight,  and  you  go  the  rounds, 

And  here  you  catch  me  at  an  alley's  end 

Where  sportive  ladies  leave  their  doors  ajar? 

The  Carmine  's  my  cloister:  hunt  it  up, 

Do, — harry  out,  if  you  must  show  your  zeal, 

Whatever  rat,  there,  haps  on  his  wrong  hole, 

And  nip  each  softling  of  a  wee  white  mouse, 

Weke,  weke,  that  's  crept  to  keep  him  company! 

Aha,  you  know  your  betters? 

Then,  you  '11  take 

Your  hand  away  that  's  fiddling  on  my  throat, 

And  please  to  know  me  likewise.     Who  am  I? 

Why,  one,  sir,  who  is  lodging  with  a  friend 

Three  streets  off — he  's  a  certain     .     .     .     how  d'  ye  call? 

Master — a     .     .     .     Cosimo  of  the  Medici, 

I'  the  house  that  caps  the  corner.     Boh !     You  were  best! 

Remember  and  tell  me,  the  day  you  're  hanged, 

How  you  affected  such  a  gullet's-gripe! 

But  you,  sir,  it  concerns  you  that  your  knaves 

Pick  up  a  manner,  nor  discredit  you: 

Zooks,  are  we  pilchards,  that  they  sweep  the  streets 

And  count  fair  prize  what  comes  into  their  net? 

He  's  Judas  to  a  tittle,  that  man  is! 


164  FRA  LTPPO  LTPPt 

Just  such  a  face!    Why,  sir,  you  make  amends. 
Lord,  I  'm  not  angry!     Bid  your  hangdogs  go 
Drink  out  this  quarter-florin  to  the  health 
Of  the  munificent  House  that  harbors  me 
(And  many  more  beside,  lads!  more  beside!) 
And  all  's  come  square  again.     I  'd  like  his  face — 
His,  elbowing  on  his  comrade  in  the  door 
With  the  pike  and  lantern, — for  the  slave  that  holds 
John  Baptist's  head  a-dangle  by  the  hair 
With  one  hand  (''Look  you,  now,"  as  who  should  say) 
And  his  weapon  in  the  other,  yet  unwiped! 
It 's  not  your  chance  to  have  a  bit  of  chalk, 
A  wood-coal  or  the  like?  or  you  should  see! 
Yes,  I  'm  the  painter,  since  you  style  me  so. 
What,  brother  Lippo's  doings,  up  and  down, 
You  know  them,  and  they  take  you?  like  enough! 
I  saw  the  proper  twinkle  in  your  eye — 
'Tell  you,  I  liked  your  looks  at  very  first. 
Let 's  sit  and  set  things  straight  now,  hip  to  haunch. 
Here  's  spring  come,  and  the  nights  one  makes  up  bands 
To  roam  the  town  and  sing  out  carnival, 
And  I  've  been  three  weeks  shut  within  my  mew, 
A-painting  for  the  great  man,  saints  and  saints 
And  saints  again.     I  could  not  paint  all  night — 
Ouf !     I  leaned  out  of  window  for  fresh  air. 
There  came  a  hurry  of  feet  and  little  feet, 
A  sweep  of  lute-strings,  laughs,  and  whifts  of  song, — 
Flower  o'  the  broom, 

Take  away  love,  and  our  earth  is  a  tomb  ! 
Floiver  0'  the  quince, 

I  let  Lisa  go,  and  what-  good  in  life  since  ? 
Flower  o'  the  thyme — and  so  on.     Eound  they  went. 
Scarce  had  they  turned  the  corner  when  a  titter 
Like  the  skipping  of  rabbits  by  moonlight, — three  slim 
shapes, 


FRA  LIPPO  LIPPL  165 

And  a  face  that  looked  up    ...     zooks,  sir,  flesh  and 

blood, 

That  's  all  I'm  made  of!     Into  shreds  it  went, 
Curtain  and  counterpane  and  coverlet, 
All  the  bed-furniture — a  dozen  knots, 
There  was  a  ladder!     Down  I  let  myself, 
Hands  and  feet,  scrambling  somehow,  and  so  dropped, 
And  after  them.     I  came  up  with  the  fun 
Hard  by  Saint  Lawrence,  hail  fellow,  well  met, — 
Flower  o'  the  rose, 

If  I  've  been  werry,  what  matter  who  knows  ? 
And  so,  as  I  was  stealing  back  again, 
To  get  to  bed  and  have  a  bit  of  sleep 
Ere  I  rise  up  to-morrow  and  go  work 
On  Jerome  knocking  at  his  poor  old  breast 
With  his  great  round  stone  to  subdue  the  flesh, 
You  snap  me  of  the  sudden.     Ah,  I  see! 
Though  your  eye  twinkles  still,  you  shake  your  head — 
Mine  's  shaved — a  monk,  you  say — the  sting  's  in  that! 
If  Master  Cosimo  announced  himself, 
Mum  's  the  word  naturally;  but  a  monk! 
Come,  what  am  I  a  beast  for?  tell  us,  now! 
I  was  a  baby  when  my  mother  died 
And  father  died  and  left  me  in  the  street. 
I  starved  there,  God  knows  how,  a  year  or  two 
On  fig-skins,  melon-parings,  rinds  and  shucks, 
Refuse  and  rubbish.     One  fine  frosty  day, 
My  stomach  being  empty  as  your  hat, 
The  wind  doubled  me  up  and  down  I  went. 
Old  Aunt  Lapaccia  trussed  me  with  one  hand, 
(Its  fellow  was  a  stinger,  as  I  knew) 
And  so  along  the  wall,  over  the  bridge, 
By  the  straight  cut  to  the  convent.     Six  words  there, 
While  I  stood  munching  my  first  bread  that  month : 
"So,  boy,  you  're  minded,"  quoth  the  good  fat  father 


166  FRA  LIPPO  LIPPL 

Wiping  his  own  month,  't  was  refection-time, — 

"To  quit  this  very  miserable  world? 

Will  you  renounce"     .     .     .     "the  mouthful  of  bread?*' 

thought  I; 

By  no  means!     Brief,  they  made  a  monk  of  me; 
I  did  renounce  the  world,  its  pride  and  greed, 
Palace,  farm,  villa,  shop  and  banking-house, 
Trash,  such  as  these  poor  devils  of  Medici 
Have  given  their  hearts  to — all  at  eight  years  old. 
Well,  sir,  I  found  in  time,  you  may  be  sure, 
'T  was  not  for  nothing — the  good  bellyful, 
The  warm  serge  and  the  rope  that  goes  all  round, 
And  day-long  blessed  idleness  beside! 
"Let  's  see  what  the  urchin  's  fit  for" — that  came  next. 
Not  overmuch  their  way,  I  must  confess. 
Such  a  to-do!     They  tried  me  with  their  books: 
Lord,  they  'd  have  taught  me  Latin  in  pure  waste! 
Flower  o'  the  clove, 

All  the  Latin  I  construe  is,  "Amo"  Hove! 
But,  mind  you,  when  a  boy  starves  in  the  streets 
Eight  years  together  as  my  fortune  was, 
Watching  folk's  faces  to  know  who  will  fling 
The  bit  of  half-stripped  grape-bunch  he  desires, 
And  who  will  curse  or  kick  him  for  his  pains, — 
Which  gentleman  processional  and  fine, 
Holding  a  candle  to  the  Sacrament, 
Will  wink  and  let  him  lift  a  plate  and  catch 
The  droppings  of  the  wax  to  sell  again, 
Or  holla  for  the  Eight  and  have  him  whipped, — 
How  say  I? — nay,  which  dog  bites,  which  lets  drop 
His  bone  from  the  heap  of  offal  in  the  street, — 
Why,  soul  and  sense  of  him  grow  sharp  alike, 
He  learns  the  look  of  things,  and  none  the  less 
For  admonition  from  the  hunger-pinch. 
I  had  a  store  of  such  remarks,  be  sure, 


FRA  LIPPO  LIPPL  167 

Which,  after  I  found  leisure,  turned  to  use: 

I  drew  men's  faces  on  my  copy-books, 

Scrawled  them  within  the  autiphonary's  marge, 

Joined  legs  and  arms  to  the  long  music-notes, 

Found  eyes  and  nose  and  chin  for  A's  and  B's 

And  made  a  string  of  pictures  of  the  world 

Betwixt  the  ins  and  outs  of  verb  and  noun, 

On  the  wall,  the  bench,  the  door.     The  monks  looked 

black. 

"Nay,"  quoth  the  Prior,  "turn  him  out,  d'  ye  say? 
In  no  wise.     Lose -a  crow  and  catch  a  lark. 
What  if  at  last  we  get  our  man  of  parts, 
We  Carmelites,  like  those  Camaldolese 
And  Preaching  Friars,  to  do  our  church  up  fine 
And  put  the  front  on  it  that  ought  to  be!" 
And  hereupon  he  bade  me  daub  away. 
Thank  you!  my  head  being  crammed,  the  walls  a  blank 
Never  was  such  prompt  disembnrdening. 
First  every  sort  of  monk,  the  black  and  white, 
I  drew  them,  fat  and  lean:  then,  folks  at  church, 
From  good  old  gossips  waiting  to  confess 
Their  cribs  of  barrel-droppings,  candle-ends, — 
To  the  breathless  fellow  at  the  altar-foot, 
Fresh  from  his  murder,  safe  and  sitting  there 
With  the  little  children  round  him  in  a  row 
Of  admiration,  half  for  his  beard,  and  half 
For  that  white  anger  of  his  victim's  son 
Shaking  a  fist  at  him  with  one  fierce  arm, 
Signing  himself  with  the  other  because  of  Christ 
(Whose  sad  face  on  the  cross  sees  only  this 
After  the  passion  of  a  thousand  years) 
Till  some  poor  girl,  her  apron  o'er  her  head, 
(Which  the  intense  eyes  looked  through)  came  at  eve 
On  tiptoe,  said  a  word,  dropped  in  a  loaf, 
Her  pair  of  ear-rings  and  a  bunch  of  flowers 


1C8  FRA  LIPPO  LIPPL 

The  brute  took  growling),  prayed,  and  so  was  gone. 

I  painted  all,  then  cried,  "'T  is  ask  and  have; 

Choose,  for  more  's  ready!" — laid  the  ladder  flat, 

And  showed  my  covered  bit  of  cloister-wall. 

The  monks  closed  in  a  circle  and  praised  loud 

Till  checked,  taught  what  to  see  and  not  to  see, 

Being  simple  bodies, — "That  's  the  very  man! 

Look  at  the  boy  who  stoops  to  pat  the  dog! 

That  woman  's  like  the  Prior's  niece  who  comes 

To  care  about  his  asthma:  it  's  the  life!" 

But  there  my  triumph's  straw-fire  flared  and  funked; 

Their  betters  took  their  turn  to  see  and  say: 

The  Prior  and  the  learned  pulled  a  face 

And  stopped  all  that  in  no  t.me.     "How?  what 's  here? 

Quite  from  the  mark  of  painting,  bless  us  all! 

Faces,  arms,  legs  and  bodies  like  the  true 

As  much  as  pea  and  pea!  it  's  devil's  game! 

Your  business  is  not  to  catch  men  with  show, 

With  homage  to  the  perishable  clay, 

But  lift  them  over  it,  ignore  it  all, 

Make  them  forget  there  's  such  a  thing  as  flesh. 

Your  business  is  to  paint  the  souls  of  men — 

Man's  soul,  and  it  's  a  fire,  smoke  .  .  no,  it's  not  .  . 

It 's  vapor  done  up  like  a  new-born  babe — 

(In  that  shape  when  you  die  it  leaves  your  mouth) 

It  's  .  .  well,  what  matters  talking,  it  's  the  soul! 

Give  us  no  more  of  body  than  shows  soul ! 

Here  's  Giotto,  with  his  Saint  a-praising  God, 

That  sets  us  praising, — why  not  stop  with  him? 

Why  put  all  thoughts  of  praise  out  of  our  head 

With  wonder  at  lines,  colors,  and  what  not? 

Paint  the  soul,  never  mind  the  legs  and  arms! 

Rub  all  out,  try  at  it  a  second  time! 

Oh,  that  white  smallish  female  with  the  breasts, 

She  's  just  my  niece  .  ,  .  Herodias,  I  would  say,— 


FRA  LIPPO  LIPPI.  109 

"Who  went  and  danced,  and  got  men's  heads  cut  off. 

Have  it  all  out!"     Now,  is  this  sense,  I  ask? 

A  fine  way  to  paint  soul,  by  painting  body 

So  ill,  the  eye  can't  stop  there,  must  go  further 

And  can't  fare  worse!     Thus,  yellow  does  for  white 

When  what  you  put  for  yellow  's  simply  black, 

And  any  sort  of  meaning  looks  intense 

AVhen  all  beside  itself  means  and  looks  nought. 

Why  can't  a  painter  lift  each  foot  in  turn, 

Left  foot  and  right  foot,  go  a  double  step, 

Make  his  flesh  liker  and  his  soul  more  like, 

Both  in  their  order?    Take  the  prettiest  face, 

The  Prior's  niece  .  .  .  patron-saint — is  it  so  pretty 

You  can't  discover  if  it  means  hope,  fear, 

Sorrow  or  joy?  won't  beauty  go  with  these? 

Suppose  I  've  made  her  eyes  all  right  and  blue, 

Can't  I  take  breath  and  try  to  add  life's  flash, 

And  then  add  soul  and  heighten  them  threefold? 

Or  say  there  's  beauty  with  no  soul  at  all — 

(I  never  saw  it — put  the  case  the  same — ) 

If  you  get  simple  beauty  and  nought  else, 

You  get  about  the  best  thing  God  invents: 

That  's  somewhat:    and  you  '11  find  the  soul  you  have 

missed, 

Writhin  yourself,  when  you  return  him  thanks. 
"Rub  all  out!"     Well,  well,  there  's  my  life,  in  short, 
And  so  the  thing  has  gone  on  ever  since. 
I  'm  grown  a  man  no  doubt,  I  've  broken  bounds: 
You  should  not  take  a  fellow  eight  years  old 
And  make  him  swear  to  never  kiss  the  girls. 
I  Jn  my  own  master,  paint  now  as  I  please — 
Having  a  friend,  you  see,  in  the  Corner-house! 
Lord,  it  's  fast  holding  by  the  rings  in  front — 
Those  great  rings  serve  more  purposes  than  just 
To  plant  a  flag  in,  or  tie  up  a  horse! 


170  FRA  LIPPO  LIPPL 

And  yet  the  old  schooling  sticks,  the  old  grave  eyes 

Are  peeping  o'er  my  shoulder  as  I  work, 

The  heads  shake  still — "It  '&  art's  decline,  my  son! 

You  're  not  of  the  true  painters,  great  and  old; 

Brother  Augelico  's  the  man,  you  '11  find; 

Brother  Lorenzo  stands  his  single  peer:  • 

Fag  on  at  flesh,  you  '11  never  make  the  third!" 

Flower  o'  the  pine, 

You  keep   your  mistr  .  .  .  manners,  and  Til  stick  to 

mine! 

I  'm  not  the  third,  then:  bless  us,  they  must  know! 
Don't  you  think  they  're  the  likeliest  to  know, 
They  with  their  Latin?     So,  I  swallow  my  rage, 
Clench  my  teeth,  suck  my  lips  in  tight,  and  paint 
To  please  them — sometimes  do,  and  sometimes  don't; 
For,  doing  most,  there  's  pretty  sure  to  come 
A  turn,  some  warm  eve  finds  me  at  my  saints — 
A  laugh,  a  cry,  the  business  of  the  world — 
(Floiver  o'  the  peach, 

Death  for  us  all,  and  Ms  own  life  for  each  /) 
And  my  whole  soul  revolves,  the  cup  runs  over, 
The  world  and  life  's  too  big  to  pass  for  a  dream, 
And  I  do  these  wild  things  in  sheer  despite, 
And  play  the  fooleries  you  catch  me  at, 
In  pure  rage !     The  old  mill-horse,  out  at  grass 
After  hard  years,  throws  up  his  stiff  heels  so, 
Although  the  miller  does  not  preach  to  him 
The  only  good  of  grass  is  to  make  chaff. 
What  would  men  have?     Do  they  like  grass  or  no — 
May  they  or  may  n't  they?  all  I  want  's  the  thing 
Settled  for  ever  one  way.     As  it  is, 
You  tell  too  many  lies  and  hurt  yourself : 
You  don't  like  what  you  only  like  too  much, 
You  do  like  what,  if  given  you  at  your  word, 
You  find  abundantly  detestable. 


FRA  LIPPO  LIPPI. 

For  me,  I  think  I  speak  as  I  was  taught — 
I  always  see  the  garden,  and  God  there 
A-making  man's  wife:  and,  my  lesson  learned, 
The  value  and  significance  of  flesh, 
I  can't  unlearn  ten  minutes  afterward. 

You  understand  me:  I  'm  a  beast,  I  know. 
But,  see,  now — why,  I  see  as  certainly 
As  that  the  morning-star  's  about  to  shine, 
What  will  hap  some  day.     We  've  a  youngster  here 
Comes  to  our  convent,  studies  what  I  do, 
Slouches  and  stares  and  lets  no  atom  drop: 
His  name  is  Guidi — he  '11  not  mind  the  monks — 
They  call  him  Hulking  Tom,  he  lets  them  talk — 
He  picks  my  practice  up — he  '11  paint  apace, 
I  hope  so — though  I  never  live  so  long, 
I  know  what  's  sure  to  follow.     You  be  judge! 
You  speak  no  Latin  more  than  I,  belike; 
However,  you  're  my  man,  you  've  seen  the  world 
— The  beauty  and  the  wonder  and  the  power, 
The  shapes  of  things,  their  colors,  lights,  and  shades, 
Changes,  surprises, — and  God  made  it  all! 
— For  what?     Do  you  feel  thankful,  ay  or  no, 
For  this  fair  town's  face,  yonder  river's  line, 
The  mountain  round  it  and  the  sky  above, 
Much  more  the  figures  of  man,  woman,  child, 
These  are  the  frame  to?     What  's  it  all  about? 
To  be  passed  over,  despised?  or  dwelt  upon, 
Wondered  at?  oh,  this  last  of  course! — you  say. 
But  why  not  do  as  well  as  say, — paint  these 
Just  as  they  are,  careless  what  comes  of  it? 
God's  works — paint  any  one,  and  count  it  crime 
To  let  a  truth  slip.     Don't  object,  "His  works 
Are  here  already;  nature  is  complete: 
Suppose  you  reproduce  her — (which  you  can't) 


172  PSA  LIPPO  LI  PPL 

There  's  no  advantage!  you  must  beat  her,  then." 

For,  don't  you  mark?  we  're  made  so  that  we  love 

First  when  we  see  them  painted,  things  we  have  passed 

Perhaps  a  hundred  times  nor  cared  to  see; 

And  so  they  are  better,  painted — better  to  us, 

Which  is  the  same  thing.     Art  was  given  for  that; 

God  uses  us  to  help  each  other  so, 

Lending  our  minds  out.     Have  yon  noticed,  now 

Your  cullion's  hanging  face?     A  bit  of  chalk, 

And  trust  me  but  you  should,  though !     How  much  more 

If  I  drew  higher  things  with  the  same  truth! 

That  were  to  take  the  Prior's  pulpit-place, 

Interpret  God  to  all  of  you!     Oh,  oh, 

It  makes  me  mad  to  see  what  men  shall  do 

And  we  in  our  graves!     This  world  's  no  blot  for  us 

Nor  blank;  it  means  intensely,  and  means  good: 

To  find  its  meaning  is  my  meat  and  drink. 

"Ay,  but  you  don't  so  instigate  to  prayer!" 

Strikes  in  the  Prior:  "when  your  meaning  's  plain 

It  does  not  say  to  folks — remember  matins, 

Or,  mind  you  fast  next  Friday!"     Why,  for  this 

What  need  of  art  at  all?    A  skull  and  bones, 

Two  bits  of  stick  nailed  cross-wise,  or,  what  's  best, 

A  bell  to  chime  the  hour  with,  does  as  well. 

I  painted  a  St.  Laurence  six  months  since 

At  Prato,  splashed  the  fresco  in  fine  style: 

"How  looks  my  painting,  now  the  scaffold  's  down?" 

I  ask  a  brother:  "Hugely,"  he  returns — 

"Already  not  one  phiz  of  your  three  slaves 

Who  turn  the  Deacon  off  his  toasted  side, 

But  's  scratched  and  prodded  to  our  heart's  content, 

The  pious  people  have  so  eased  their  own 

With  coming  to  say  prayers  there  in  a  rage: 

We  get  on  fast  to  see  the  bricks  beneath. 

Expect  another  job  this  time  next  year, 


FRA  LIPPO  LIPPI.  173 

For  pity  and  religion  grow  i'  the  crowd — 

Your  painting  serves  its  purpose!"     Hang  the  fools! 

— That  is — you  '11  not  mistake  an  idle  word 
Spoke  in  a  huff  by  a  poor  monk,  God  wot 
Tasting  the  air  this  spicy  night  which  turns 
The  unaccustomed  head  like  Chianti  wine! 
Oh,  the  church  knows!  don't  misreport  me,  now 
It  's  natural  a  poor  monk  out  of  bounds 
Should  have  his  apt  word  to  excuse  himself: 
And  hearken  how  I  plot  to  make  amends. 
I  have  bethought  me:  I  shall  paint  a  piece 
.     .     .     There  's  for  you !     Give  me  six  months,  then  go, 

see 

Something  in  Sant'  Ambrogio's!    Bless  the  nuns! 
They  want  a  cast  o'  my  office.     I  shall  paint 
God  in  the  midst,  Madonna  and  her  babe, 
Ringed  by  a  bowery,  flowery  angel-brood, 
Lilies  and  vestments  and  white  faces,  sweet 
As  puff  on  puff  of  grated  orris-root 
When  ladies  crowd  to  church  at  midsummer. 
And  then  i'  the  front,  of  course  a  saint  or  two — 
St.  John,  because  he  saves  the  Florentines, 
St.  Ambrose,  who  puts  down  in  black  and  white 
The  convent's  friends  and  gives  them  a  long  day, 
And  Job,  I  must  have  him  there  past  mistake, 
The  man  of  Uz,  (and  Us  without  the  z, 
Painters  who  need  his  patience.)    Well,  all  these 
Secured  at  their  devotion,  up  shall  come 
Out  of  a  corner  when  you  least  expect, 
As  one  by  a  dark  stair  into  a  great  light, 
Music  and  talking,  who  but  Lippo!  I! — 
Mazed,  motionless  and  moon-struck — I  'm  the  man! 
Back  I  shrink — what  is  this  I  see  and  hear? 
I,  caught  up  with  my  monk's  things  by  mistake, 


174  &RA  LIPPO  LIPPL 

My  old  serge  gown  and  rope  that  goes  all  round, 

I,  in  this  presence,  this  pure  company ! 

Where  's  a  hole,  where  's  a  corner  for  escape? 

Then  steps  a  sweet  angelic  slip  of  a  thing 

Forward,  puts  out  a  soft  palm — "Not  so  fast!" 

— Addresses  the  celestial  presence,  "nay — 

He  made  you  and  devised  you,  after  all, 

Though  he  's  none  of  you!     Could   Saint  John   there 

draw — 

His  camel-hair  make  up  a  painting  brush? 
We  come  to  brother  Lippo  for  all  that, 
Iste  perfecit  opus  /"     So,  all  smile — 
I  shuffle  sideways  with  my  blushing  face 
Under  the  cover  of  a  hundred  wings 
Thrown  like  a  spread  of  kirtles  when  you  're  gay 
And  play  hot  cockles,  all  the  doors  being  shut, 
Till,  wholly  unexpected,  in  there  pops 
The  hothead  husband !     Thus  I  scuttle  off 
To  some  safe  bench  behind,  not  letting  go 
The  palm  of  her,  the  little  lily  thing 
That  spoke  the  good  word  for  me  in  the  nick, 
Like  the  Prior's  niece  .  .  .  Saint  Lucy,  I  would  say. 
And  so  all  's  saved  for  me,  and  for  the  church 
A  pretty  picture  gained.     Go,  six  months  hence! 
Your  hand,  sir,  and  good-bye:  no  lights,  no  lights! 
The  street 's  hushed,  and  I  know  my  own  way  back, 
Don't  fear  me!     There  's  the  gray  beginning.     Zooks! 


ANDREA  DEL  SARTO.  175 

ANDREA  DEL  SARTO. 
(CALLED  "THE  FAULTLESS  PAINTEB.") 

BUT  do  not  let  us  quarrel  any  more, 

No,  my  Lucrezia!  bear  with  me  for  once: 

Sit  down  and  all  shall  happen  as  you  wish. 

You  turn  your  face,  but  does  it  bring  your  heart? 

I  '11  work  then  for  your  friend's  friend,  never  fear, 

Treat  his  own  subject  after  his  own  way, 

Fix  his  own  time,  accept  too  his  own  price, 

And  shut  the  money  into  this  small  hand 

When  next  it  takes  mine.     Will  it?  tenderly? 

Oh,  I  '11  content  him, — but  to-morrow,  Love! 

I  often  am  much  wearier  than  you  think, 

This  evening  more  than  usual :  and  it  seems 

As  if — forgive  now — should  you  let  me  sit 

Here  by  the  window,  with  your  hand  in  mine, 

And  look  a  half  hour  forth  on  Fiesole, 

Both  of  one  mind,  as  married  people  use, 

Quietly,  quietly  the  evening  through, 

I  might  get  up  to-morrow  to  my  work 

Cheerful  and  fresh  as  ever.     Let  us  try. 

To-morrow,  how  you  shall  be  glad  for  this! 

Your  soft  hand  is  a  woman  of  itself, 

And  mine,  the  man's  bared  breast  she  curls  inside. 

Don't  count  the  time  lost,  neither;  you  must  serve 

For  each  of  the  five  pictures  we  require: 

It  saves  a  model.     So!  keep  looking  so— 

My  serpentining  beauty,  rounds  on  rounds! 

— How  could  you  ever  prick  those  perfect  ears, 

Even  to  put  the  pearl  there!  oh,  so  sweet — • 

My  face,  my  moon,  my  everybody's  moon, 

Which  everybody  looks  on  and  calls  his, 


ANDREA  DEL  SARTO. 

And,  I  suppose,  is  looked  on  by  in  turn, 

While  she  looks — no  one's:  very  dear,  no  less. 

You  smile?  why,  there  's  my  picture  ready  made, 

There  's  what  we  painters  call  our  harmony! 

A  common  grayness  silvers  everything, — 

All  in  a  twilight,  you  and  I  alike 

— You,  at  the  point  of  your  first  pride  in  me 

(That  's  gone,  you  know) — but  I,  at  every  point; 

My  youth,  my  hope,  my  art,  being  all  toned  down 

To  yonder  sober  pleasant  Fiesole. 

There  's  the  bell  clinking  from  the  chapel-top; 

That  length  of  convent-wall  across  the  way 

Holds  the  trees  safer,  huddled  more  inside; 

The  last  monk  leaves  the  garden;  days  decrease, 

And  autumn  grows,  autumn  in  everything. 

Eh?  the  whole  seems  to  fall  into  a  shape, 

As  if  I  saw  alike  my  work  and  self 

And  all  that  I  was  born  to  be  and  do, 

A  twilight-piece.     Love,  we  are  in  God's  hand. 

How  strange  now,  looks  the  life  he  makes  us  lead; 

So  free  we  seem,  so  fettered  fast  we  are! 

I  feel  he  laid  the  fetter:  let  it  lie! 

This  chamber,  for  example — turn  your  head — 

All  that  's  behind  us!     You  don't  understand 

Nor  care  to  understand  about  my  art, 

But  you  can  hear  at  least  when  people  speak: 

And  that  cartoon,  the  second  from  the  door 

— It  is  the  thing,  Love!  so  such  things  should  be 

Behold  Madonna ! — I  am  bold  to  say. 

I  can  do  with  my  pencil  what  I  know, 

What  I  see,  what  at  bottom  of  my  heart 

I  wish  for,  if  I  ever  wish  so  deep — 

Do  easily,  too — when  I  say,  perfectly, 

I  do  not  boast,  perhaps:  yourself  are  judge, 

Who  listened  to  the  Lewie's  talk  last 


ANDREA  DEL  SARTO.  177 

And  just  as  much  they  used  to  say  in  Franco. 

At  any  rate  't  is  easy,  all  of  it! 

No  sketches  first,  no  studies,  that  's  long  past: 

I  do  what  many  dream  of,  all  their  lives, 

— Dream?  strive  to  do,  and  agonize  to  do, 

And  fail  in  doing.     I  could  count  twenty  such 

On  twice  your  fingers,  and  not  leave  this  town, 

Who  strive — you  don't  know  how  the  others  strive 

To  paint  a  little  thing  like  that  you  smeared 

Carelessly  passing  with  your  robes  afloat, — • 

Yet  do  much  less,  so  much  less,  Someone  says, 

(I  know  his  name,  no  matter) — so  much  less! 

Well,  less  is  more,  Lucrezia:  I  am  judged. 

There  burns  a  truer  light  of  God  in  them, 

In  their  vexed  beating  stuffed  and  stopped-up  brain, 

Heart,  or  whate'er  else,  than  goes  on  to  prompt 

This  low-pulsed  forthright  craftsman's  hand  of  mine. 

Their  works  drop  groundward,  but  themselves,  I  know, 

Eeach  many  a  time  a  heaven  that  's  shut  to  me, 

Enter  and  take  their  place  there  sure  enough, 

Though  they  come  back  and  cannot  tell  the  world. 

My  works  are  nearer  heaven,  but  I  sit  here. 

The  sudden  blood  of  these  men!  at  a  word — 

Praise  them,  it  boils,  or  blame  them,  it  boils  too. 

I,  painting  from  myself  and  to  myself, 

Know  what  I  do,  am  unmoved  by  men's  blame 

Or  their  praise  either.     Somebody  remarks 

Morello's  outline  there  is  wrongly  traced, 

His  hue  mistaken;  what  of  that?  or  else, 

Kightly  traced  and  well  ordered;  what  of  that? 

Speak  as  they  please,  what  does  the  mountain  care? 

Ah,  but  a  man's  reach  should  exceed  his  grasp, 

Or  what  's  a  heaven  for?    All  is  silver-gray, 

Placid  and  perfect  with  my  art:  the  worse! 

I  know  both  what  I  want  and  what  might  gain; 


178  ANDREA  DEL  8AR?0. 

And  yet  how  profitless  to  know,  to  sigh 

"Had  I  been  two,  another  and  myself, 

Our  head  would  have  o'erlooked  the  world!"    No  doubt. 

Yonder  's  a  work  now,  of  that  famous  youth 

The  Urbinate  who  died  five  years  ago. 

('T  is  copied,  George  Vasari  sent  it  me.) 

Well,  I  can  fancy  how  he  did  it  all, 

Pouring  his  soul,  with  kings  and  popes  to  see, 

Beaching,  that  heaven  might  so  replenish  him 

Above  and  through  his  art — for  it  gives  way; 

That  arm  is  wrongly  put — and  there  again — • 

A  fault  to  pardon  in  the  drawing's  lines 

Its  body,  so  to  speak :  its  soul  is  right, 

He  means  right — that,  a  child  may  understand. 

Still,  what  an  arm!  and  I  could  alter  it: 

But  all  the  play,  the  insight  and  the  stretch — 

Out  of  me,  out  of  me!     And  wherefore  out? 

Had  you  enjoined  them  on  me,  given  me  soul, 

We  might  have  risen  to  Eafael,  I  and  you. 

Nay,  Love,  you  did  give  all  I  asked,  I  think — 

More  than  I  merit,  yes,  by  many  times. 

But  had  you — oh,  with  the  same  perfect  brow, 

And  perfect  eyes,  and  more  than  perfect  mouth, 

And  the  low  voice  my  soul  hears,  as  a  bird 

The  fowler's  pipe,  and  follows  to  the  snare — 

Had  you,  with  these  the  same,  but  brought  a  mind 

Some  women  do  so.     Had  the  mouth  there  urged 

"God  and  the  glory!  never  care  for  gain. 

The  present  by  the  future,  what  is  that? 

Live  for  fame,  side  by  side  with  Agnolo! 

Eafael  is  waiting:  up  to  God,  all  three!" 

I  might  have  done  it  for  you.     So  it  seems: 

Perhaps  not.     All  is  as  God  over-rules. 

Besides,  incentives  come  from  the  soul's  self; 

The  rest  avail  not.     Why  do  I  need  you? 


ANDREA  DEL  SARTO.  179 

What  wife  had  Rafael,  or  has  Agnolo? 

In  this  world,  who  can  do  a  thing,  will  not; 

And  who  would  do  it,  cannot,  I  perceive : 

Yet  the  will  's  somewhat — somewhat,  too,  the  power — 

And  thus  we  half-men  struggle.     At  the  end, 

God,  I  conclude,  compensates,  punishes. 

'T  is  safer  for  me,  if  the  award  be  strict, 

That  I  am  something  underrated  here, 

Poor  this  long  while,  despised,  to  speak  the  truth. 

I  dared  not,  do  you  know,  leave  home  all  day, 

For  fear  of  chancing  on  the  Paris  lords. 

The  best  is  when  they  pass  and  look  aside; 

But  they  speak  sometimes;  I  must  bear  it  all. 

Well  may  they  speak!     That  Francis,  that  first  time, 

And  that  long  festal  year  at  Fontainebleau ! 

I  surely  then  could  sometimes  leave  the  ground, 

Put  on  the  glory,  Rafael's  daily  wear, 

In  that  humane  great  monarch's  golden  look, — 

One  finger  in  his  beard  or  twisted  curl 

Over  his  mouth's  good  mark  that  made  the  smile, 

One  arm  about  my  shoulder,  round  my  neck, 

The  jingle  of  his  gold  chain  in  my  ear, 

I  painting  proudly  with  his  breath  on  me, 

All  his  court  round  him,  seeing  with  his  eyes, 

Such  frank  French  eyes,  and  such  a  fire  of  souls 

Profuse,  my  hand  kept  plying  by  those  hearts, — 

And,  best  of  all,  this,  this,  this  face  beyond, 

This  in  the  background,  waiting  on  my  work, 

To  crown  the  issue  with  a  last  reward ! 

A  good  time,  was  it  not,  my  kingly  days? 

And  had  you  not  grown  restless  .  .  .  but  I  know — 

'T  is  done  and  past;  't  was  right,  my  instinct  said; 

Too  live  the  life  grew,  golden  and  not  gray: 

And  I  'm  the  weak-eyed  bat  no  sun  should  tempt 

Out  of  the  grange  whose  four  walls  make  his  world. 


180  ANDREA  DEL  SARTO. 

How  could  it  end  in  any  other  way? 

You  called  me  and  I  came  home  to  your  heart. 

The  triumph  was,  to  have  ended  there;  then,  if 

I  reached  it  ere  the  triumph,  what  is  lost? 

Let  my  hands  frame  your  face  in  your  hair's  gold, 

You  beautiful  Lucrezia  that  are  mine! 

"Rafael  did  this,  Andrea  painted  that; 

The  Roman's  is  the  better  when  you  pray, 

But  still  the  other's  Virgin  was  his  wife — " 

Men  will  excuse  me.     I  am  glad  to  judge 

Both  pictures  in  your  presence;  clearer  grows 

My  better  fortune,  I  resolve  to  think. 

For,  do  you  know,  Lucrezia,  as  God  lives, 

Said  one  day  Agnolo,  his  very  self, 

To  Rafael  ...  I  have  known  it  all  these  years  .  .  . 

(When  the  young  man  was  flaming  out  his  thoughts 

Upon  a  palace-wall  for  Rome  to  see, 

Too  lifted  up  in  heart  because  of  it) 

"Friend,  there  's  a  certain  sorry  little  scrub 

Goes  up  and  down  our  Florence,  none  cares  how, 

Who,  were  he  set  to  plan  and  execute 

As  you  are,  pricked  on  by  your  popes  and  kings, 

Would  bring  the  sweat  into  that  brow  of  yours!" 

To  Rafael's! — And  indeed  the  arm  is  wrong. 

I  hardly  dare  .  .  .  yet,  only  you  to  see, 

Give  the  chalk  here — quick,  thus  the  line  should  go! 

Ay,  but  the  soul!  he  's  Rafael!  rub  it  out! 

Still,  all  I  care  for,  if  he  spoke  the  truth, 

(What  he?  why,  who  but  Michel  Agnolo? 

Do  you  forget  already  words  like  those?) 

If  really  there  was  such  a  chance  so  lost, — 

Is,  whether  you  're — not  grateful — but  more  pleased. 

Well,  let  me  think  so.     And  you  smile  indeed ! 

This  hour  has  been  an  hour!     Another  smile? 

If  you  would  sit  thus  by  me  every  night 


ANDREA  DEL  SARTO.  181 

I  should  work  better,  do  you  comprehend? 

I  mean  that  I  should  earn  more,  give  you  more. 

See,  it  is  settled  dusk  now;  there  's  a  star; 

Morello  's  gone,  the  watch-lights  show  the  wall, 

The  cue-owls  speak  the  name  we  call  them  by. 

Come  from  the  window,  love, — come  in,  at  last, 

Inside  the  melancholy  little  house 

We  built  to  be  so  gay  with.     God  is  just. 

King  Francis  may  forgive  me:  oft  at  nights 

When  I  look  up  from  painting,  eyes  tired  out, 

The  walls  become  illumined,  brick  from  brick 

Distinct,  instead  of  mortar,  fierce  bright  gold, 

That  gold  of  his  I  did  cement  them  with! 

Let  us  but  love  each  other.     Must  you  go? 

That  Cousin  here  again?  he  waits  outside? 

Must  see  you — you,  and   not  with  me?     Those  loans? 

More  gaming  debts  to  pay?  you  smiled  for  that? 

AVell,  let  smiles  buy  me!  have  you  more  to  spend? 

While  hand  and  eye  and  something  of  a  heart 

Are  left  me,  work  's  my  ware,  and  what  's  it  worth? 

I  '11  pay  my  fancy.     Only  let  me  sit 

The  gray  remainder  of  the  evening  out, 

Idle,  you  call  it,  and  muse  perfectly 

How  I  could  paint,  were  I  but  back  in  France, 

One  picture,  just  one  more — the  Virgin's  face, 

Not  yours  this  time!     I  want  you  at  my  side 

To  hear  them — that  is,  Michel  Agnolo — 

Judge  all  I  do  and  tell  you  of  its  worth. 

Will  you?     To-morrow,  satisfy  your  friend. 

I  take  the  subjects  for  his  corridor, 

Finish  the  portrait  out  of  hand — there,  there, 

And  throw  him  in  another  thing  or  two 

If  he  demurs;  the  whole  should  prove  enough 

To  pay  for  this  same  Cousin's  freak.     Beside, 

What 's  better  and  what  's  all  I  care  about, 


182  AJVDREA  DEL  SARTO. 

Get  you  the  thirteen  scudi  for  the  ruff! 

Love,  does  that  please  you?    Ah,  but  what  does  he, 

The  Cousin!  what  does  he  to  please  you  more? 

I  am  grown  peaceful  as  old  age  to-night. 
I  regret  little,  I  would  change  still  less. 
Since  there  my  past  life  lies,  why  alter  it? 
The  very  wrong  to  Francis! — it  is  true 
I  took  his  coin,  was  tempted  and  complied, 
And  built  this  house  and  sinned,  and  all  is  said. 
My  father  and  my  mother  died  of  want. 
Well,  had  I  riches  of  my  own?  you  see 
How  one  gets  rich !     Let  each  one  bear  his  lot. 
They  were  born  poor,  lived  poor,  and  poor  they  died 
And  I  have  labored  somewhat  in  my  time 
And  not  been  paid  profusely.     Some  good  son 
Paint  my  two  hundred  pictures — let  him  try! 
No  doubt  there  's  something  strikes  a  balance.     Yes, 
You  loved  me  quite  enough,  it  seems  to-night. 
This  must  suffice  me  here.     What  would  one  have? 
In  heaven,  perhaps,  new  chances,  one  more  chance — 
Four  great  walls  in  the  New  Jerusalem, 
Meted  on  each  side  by  the  angel's  reed, 
For  Leonard,  Rafael,  Agnolo  and  me 
To  cover — the  three  first  without  a  wife, 
While  I  have  mine!    So — still  they  overcome 
Because  there  's  still  Lucrezia, — as  I  choose. 

Again  the  Cousin's  whistle !     Go,  my  Love. 


THE  BISHOP  ORDERS  HIS  TOMB.  183 


THE  BISHOP  ORDERS  HIS  TOMB  AT  SAINT 
PRAXED'S   CHURCH. 

ROME,  15 — . 

VANITY,  saith  the  preacher,  vanity ! 

Draw  round  my  bed:  is  Anselm  keeping  back? 

Nephews — sons    mine     ...     ah    God,   I    know    not! 

Well- 
She,  men  would  have  to  be  your  mother  once, 
Old  Gandolf  envied  ine,  so  fair  she  was! 
What  's  done  is  done,  and  she  is  dead  beside, 
Dead  long  ago,  and  I  am  Bishop  since, 
And  as  she  died  so  must  we  die  ourselves, 
And  thence  ye  may  perceive  the  world  's  a  dream. 
Life,  how  and  what  is  it?     As  here  I  lie 
In  this  state-chamber,  dying  by  degrees, 
Hours  and  long  hours  in  the  dead  night,  I  ask 
"Do  I  live,  am  I  dead?"     Peace,  peace  seems  all. 
Saint  Praxed's  ever  was  the  church  for  peace; 
And  so,  about  this  tomb  of  mine.     I  fought 
With  tooth  and  nail  to  save  my  niche,  ye  know: 
— Old  Gandolf  cozened  me,  despite  my  care; 
Shrewd  was  that  snatch  from  out  the  corner  South 
He  graced  his  carrion  with,  God  curse  the  same! 
Yet  still  my  niche  is  not  so  cramped  but  thence 
One  sees  the  pulpit  on  the  epistle-side, 
And  somewhat  of  the  choir,  those  silent  seats, 
And  up  into  the  aery  dome  where  live 
The  angels,  and  a  sunbeam  's  sure  to  lurk : 
And  I  shall  fill  my  slab  of  basalt  there, 
And  'neath  my  tabernacle  take  my  rest, 
With  those  nine  columns  round  me,  two  and  two, 
The  odd  one  at  my  feet  where  Anselm  stands: 


184  TEE  BISHOP  ORDERS  HIS  TOMB. 

Peach-blossom  marble  all,  the  rare,  the  ripe 
As  freslvpoured  red  wine  of  a  mighty  pulse. 
*  —  Olcf  Gandolf  with  his  paltry  onion-stone, 
Put  me  where  I  may  look  at  him!     True  peach, 
Eosy  and  flawless:  how  I  earned  the  prize! 
Draw  close:  that  conflagration  of  my  church 
— What  then?     So  much  was  saved  if  aught  were  missed! 
My  sons,  ye  would  not  be  my  death?     Go  dig 
The  white-grape  vineyard  where  the  oil-press  stood, 
Drop  water  gently  till  the  surface  sink, 
And  if  ye  find     .     .     .     Ah  God,  I  know  not,  I!     ... 
Bedded  in  store  of  rotten  figleaves  soft, 
And  corded  up  in  a  tight  olive-frail, 
Some  lump,  ah  God,  of  lapis  lazuli, 
Big  as  a  Jew's  head  cut  off  at  the  nape, 
Blue  as  a  vein  o'er  the  Madonna's  breast    .     .     . 
Sons,  all  have  I  bequeathed  you,  villas,  all, 
That  brave  Frascati  villa  with  its  bath, 
So,  let  the  blue  lump  poise  between  my  knees, 
Like  God  the  Father's  globe  on  both  his  hands 
Ye  worship  in  the  Jesu  Church  so  gay, 
For  Gandolf  shall  not  choose  but  see  and  burst! 
Swift  as  a  weaver's  shuttle  fleet  our  years: 
Man  goeth  to  the  grave,  and  where  is  he? 
Did  I  say,  basalt  for  my  slab,  sons?    Black — 
'T  was  ever  antique-black  I  meant!     How  else 
Shall  ye  contrast  my  frieze  to  come  beneath? 
The  bas-relief  in  bronze  ye  promised  me, 
Those  Pans  and  Nymphs  ye  wot  of,  and  perchance 
Some  tripod,  thyrsus,  with  a  vase  or  so, 
The  Saviour  at  his  sermon  on  the  mount, 
Saint  Praxed  in  a  glory,  and  one  Pan 
Eeady  to  twitch  the  Nymph's  last  garment  off, 
And  Moses  with  the  tables     .     .     .     but  I  know 
Ye  mark  me  not!     What  do  they  whisper  thee, 


THE  BISHOP  ORDERS  HIS  TOMB.  185 

Child  of  my  bowels,  Anselm?    Ah,  ye  hope 

To  revel  down  my  villas  while  I  gasp 

Bricked  o'er  with  beggar's  mouldy  travertine 

Which  Gandolf  from  his  tomb-top  chuckles  at! 

Nay,  boys,  ye  love  me — all  of  jasper,  then ! 

'T  is  jasper  ye  stand  pledged  to,  lest  I  grieve. 

My  bath  must  needs  be  left  behind,  alas ! 

One  block,  pure  green  as  a  pistachio-nut, 

There  's  plenty  jasper  somewhere  in  the  world — 

And  have  I  not  Saint  Praxed's  ear  to  pray 

Horses  for  ye,  and  brown  Greek  manuscripts, 

And  mistresses  with  great  smooth  marbly  limbs? 

— That  's  if  ye  carve  my  epitaph  aright, 

Choice  Latin,  picked  phrase,  Tully's  every  word, 

No  gaudy  ware  like  Gandolf 's  second  line — 

Tully,  my  masters?    Ulpian  serves  his  need! 

And  then  how  I  shall  lie  through  centuries, 

And  hear  the  blessed  mutter  of  the  mass, 

And  see  God  made  and  eaten  all  day  long, 

And  feel  the  steady  candle-flame,  and  taste 

Good  strong  thick  stupefying  incense-smoke! 

For  as  I  lie  here,  hours  of  the  dead  night, 

Dying  in  state  and  by  such  slow  degrees, 

I  fold  my  arms  as  if  they  clasped  a  crook, 

And  stretch  my  feet  forth  straight  as  stone  can  point, 

And  let  the  bedclothes,  for  a  mortcloth,  drop 

Into  great  laps  and  folds  of  sculptor's  work : 

And  as  yon  tapers  dwindle,  and  strange  thoughts 

Grow,  with  a  certain  humming  in  my  ears, 

About  the  life  before  I  lived  this  life, 

And  this  life  too,  popes,  cardinals  and  priests, 

Saint  Praxed  at  his  sermon  on  the  mount, 

Your  tall  pale  mother  with  her  talking  eyes, 

And  new-found  agate  urns  as  fresh  as  day, 

And  marble's  language,  Latin  pure,  discreet, 


186  A  IOCCATA  OF  OALUPPPS. 

— Aha,  ELUCESCEBAT,  quoth  our  friend? 

No  Tully,  said  I,  Ulpian  at  the  best! 

Evil  and  brief  hath  been  my  pilgrimage. 

All  lapis,  all,  sons !     Else  I  give  the  Pope 

My  villas!    Will  ye  ever  eat  my  heart? 

Ever  your  eyes  were  as  a  lizard's  quick, 

They  glitter  like  your  mother's  for  my  soul, 

Or  ye  would  heighten  my  impoverished  frieze, 

Piece  out  its  starved  design,  and  fill  my  vase 

With  grapes,  and  add  a  vizor  and  a  Term, 

And  to  the  tripod  ye  would  tie  a  lynx 

That  in  his  struggle  throws  the  thyrsus  down, 

To  comfort  me  on  my  entablature 

Whereon  I  am  to  lie  till  I  must  ask 

"Do  I  live,  am  I  dead?"     There,  leave  me,  there! 

For  ye  have  stabbed  me  with  ingratitude 

To  death:  ye  wish  it — God,  ye  wish  it!    Stone! — 

Gritstone,  a-crumble !     Clammy  squares  which  sweat 

As  if  the  corpse  they  keep  were  oozing  through — 

And  no  more  lapis  to  delight  the  world ! 

Well  go!    I  bless  ye.     Fewer  tapers  there, 

But  in  a  row :  and,  going,  turn  your  backs 

— Ay,  like  departing  altar-ministrants, 

And  leave  me  in  my  church,  the  church  for  peace, 

That  I  may  watch  at  leisure  if  he  leers — 

Old  Gandolf  at  me,  from  his  onion-stone, 

As  still  he  envied  me,  so  fair  she  was ! 


A  TOCCATA  OF  GALUPPI'S. 
i. 

OH,  Galuppi,  Baldassaro,  this  is  very  sad  to  find! 

I  can  hardly  misconceive  you;  it  would  prove  me  deaf  and 

blind ! 
But  although  I  take  your  meaning,  't  is  with  such  a  heavy 

mind! 


A  TOCCATA  OF  QALUPPPS.  187 

II. 

Here  you  come  with  your  old  music,  aiid  here  's  all  the 

good  it  brings. 
What,  they  lived  once  thus  at  Venice  where  the  merchants 

were  the  kings, 
Where  St.  Mark's  is,  where  the  Doges  used  to  wed  the  sea 

with  rings? 

in. 

Ay,  because  the  sea  's  the  street  there;  and  't  is  arched 

by     ...     what  you  call 
.     .     .     Shylock's  bridge  with  houses  on  it,  where  they 

kept  the  carnival : 
I  was  never  out  of  England — it 's  as  if  I  saw  it  all. 

IV. 

Did  young  people  take  their  pleasure  when  the  sea  was 
warm  in  May? 

Balls  and  masks  begun  at  midnight,  burning  ever  to  mid- 
day, 

When  they  made  up  fresh  adventures  for  the  morrow,  do 
you  say? 

v. 

Was  a  lady  such  a  lady,  cheeks  so  round  and  lips  so  red, — 
On  her  neck  the  small  face  buoyant,  like  a  bell-flower  on 

its  bed, 
O'er  the  breast's  superb  abundance  where  a  man  might 

base  his  head? 

VI. 

Well,  and  it  was  graceful  of  them :  they  'd  break  talk  off 
and  afford 

— She,  to  bite  her  mask's  black  velvet,  he,  to  finger  on  his 
sword, 

While  you  sat  and  played  Toccatas,  stately  at  the  clavi- 
chord? 


188  A  TOCCATA  OF  GALUPPI'S 

VII. 

What?  Those  lesser  thirds  so  plaintive,  sixths  diminished, 
sigh  on  sigh, 

Told  them  something?  Those  suspensions,  those  solu- 
tions— "Must  we  die?" 

Those  commiserating  sevenths — "Life  might  last!  we  can 
but  try!" 

YIII. 

"Were  you  happy?" — "Yes." — "And  are  you  still  as 
happy?"— "Yes.  And  you?" 

— "Then,  more  kisses!" — "Did  J  stop  them,  when  a 
million  seemed  so  few?" 

Hark,  the  dominant's  persistence  till  it  must  be  answered 
to! 

IX. 

So,  an  octave  struck  the  answer.     Oh,  they  praised  you,  I 

dare  say ! 
"Brave  Galuppi!  that  was  music!  good  alike  at  grave  and 

gay! 

I  can  always  leave  off  talking  when  I  hear  a  master 
play!" 

x. 

Then  they  left  you  for  their  pleasure :  till  in  due  time, 

one  by  one, 
Some  with  lives  that  came  to  nothing,  some  with  deeds  as 

well  undone, 
Death  stepped  tacitly,  and  took  them  where  they  never 

see  the  sun. 


A  TOCCATA  OF  GALUPPI'S.  189 

XI. 

But  when  I  sit  down  to  reason,  think  to  take  my  stand 

nor  swerve, 
While  I  triumph  o'er  a  secret  wrung  from  nature's  close 

reserve, 
In  you  come  with  your  cold  music  till  I  creep  thro'  every 

nerve. 

XII. 

Yes,  you,  like  a  ghostly  cricket,  creaking  where  a  house 

was  burned: 
"Dust  and  ashes,  dead  and  done  with,  Venice  spent  what 

Venice  earned. 
The  soul,  doubtless,  is  immortal — where  a  soul  can  be 

discerned. 

XIII. 

"Yours  for  instance:  you  know  physics,  something  of 
geology, 

Mathematics  are  your  pastime;  souls  shall  rise  in  their 
degree; 

Butterflies  may  dread  extinction, — you  '11  not  die,  it  can- 
not be ! 

XIV. 

"As  for  Venice  and  her  people,  merely  born  to  bloom  and 

drop, 
Here  on  earth  they  bore  their  fruitage,  mirth  and  folly 

were  the  crop: 
What  of  the  soul  was  left,  I  wonder,  when  the  kissing  had 

to  stop? 

XV. 

"Dust  and  ashes!"     So  you  creak  it,  and  I  want  the  heart 

to  scold. 
Dear  dead  women,  with  such  hair,  too — what  's  become  of 

all  the  gold 
Used  to  hang  and  brush  their  bosoms?    I  feel  chilly  and 

grown  old. 


190  HOW  IT  STRIKES  A  CONTEMPORARY. 


HOW  IT    STRIKES  A    CONTEMPORARY. 

I  ONLY  knew  one  poet  in  my  life : 

And  this,  or  something  like  it,  was  his  way. 

You  saw  go  up  and  down  Valladolid, 
A  man  of  mark,  to  know  next  time  you  saw. 
His  very  serviceable  suit  of  black 
Was  courtly  once  and  conscientious  still, 
And  many  might  have  worn  it,  though  none  did : 
The  cloak,  that  somewhat  shone  and  showed  the  threads, 
Had  purpose,  and  the  ruff,  significance. 
He  walked,  and  tapped  the  pavement  with  his  cane, 
Scenting  the  world,  looking  it  full  in  face: 
An  old  dog,  bald  and  blindish,  at  his  heels. 
They  turned  up,  now,  the  alley  by  the  church, 
That  leads  no  whither;  now,  they  breathed  themselves 
On  the  main  promenade  just  at  the  wrong  time. 
You  'd  come  upon  his  scrutinizing  hat, 
Making  a  peaked  shade  blacker  than  itself 
Against  the  single  window  spared  some  house 
Intact  yet  with  its  mouldered  Moorish  work, — 
Or  else  surprise  the  ferrule  of  his  stick 
Trying  the  mortar's  temper  'tween  the  chinks 
Of  some  new  shop  a-building,  French  and  fine. 
He  stood  and  watched  the  cobbler  at  his  trade, 
The  man  who  slices  lemons  into  drink, 
The  coffee-roaster's  brazier,  and  the  boys 
That  volunteer  to  help  him  turn  its  winch. 
He  glanced  o'er  books  on  stalls  with  half  an  eye, 
And  fly-leaf  ballads  on  the  vendor's  string, 
And  broad-edge  bold-print  posters  by  the  wall. 
He  took  such  cognizance  of  men  and  things, 
If  any  beat  a  horse,  you  felt  he  saw; 
If  any  cursed  a  woman,  he  took  note; 


HOW  IT  STRIKES  A  CONTEMPORARY.  191 

Yet  stared  at  nobody, — you  stared  at  him, 

And  found,  less  to  your  pleasure  than  surprise, 

He  seemed  to  know  you  and  expect  as  much. 

So,  next  time  that  a  neighbor's  tongue  was  loosed, 

It  marked  the  shameful  and  notorious  fact 

We  had  among  us,  not  so  much  a  spy, 

As  a  recording  chief-inquisitor, 

The  town's  true  master  if  the  town  but  knew! 

We  merely  kept  a  governor  for  form, 

While  this  man  walked  about  and  took  account 

Of  all  thought,  said  and  acted,  then  went  home, 

And  wrote  it  fully  to  our  Lord  the  King 

Who  has  an  itch  to  know  things,  he  knows  why, 

And  reads  them  in  his  bedroom  of  a  night. 

Oh,  you  might  smile!  there  wanted  not  a  touch, 

A  tang  of    ...     well,  it  was  not  wholly  ease, 

As  back  into  your  mind  the  man's  look  came. 

Stricken  in  years  a  little,  such  a  brow 

His  eyes  had  to  live  under! — clear  as  flint 

On  either  side  o'  the  formidable  nose 

Curved,  cut  and  colored  like  an  eagle's  claw. 

Had  he  to  do  with  A.'s  surprising  fate? 

When  altogether  old  B.  disappeared 

And  young  C.  got  his  mistress, — was  't  our  friend, 

His  letter  to  the  King,  that  did  it  all? 

What  paid  the  bloodless  man  for  so  much  pains? 

Our  Lord  the  King  has  favorites  manifold, 

And  shifts  his  ministry  some  once  a  month ; 

Our  city  gets  new  governors  at  whiles, — 

But  never  word  or  sign,  that  I  could  hear, 

Notified,  to  this  man  about  the  streets, 

The  King's  approval  of  those  letters  conned 

The  last  thing  duly  at  the  dead  of  night. 

Did  the  man  love  his  office?     Frowned  our  Lord, 

Exhorting  when  none  heard — "Beseech  me  not! 


192  HOW  IT  STRIKES  A   CONTEMPORARY. 

Too  far  above  my  people, — beneath  me ! 
I  set  the  watch, — how  should  the  people  know? 
Forget  them,  keep  me  all  the  more  in  mind!" 
Was  some  such  understanding  'twixt  the  two? 

I  found  no  truth  in  one  report  at  least — 
That  if  you  tracked  him  to  his  home,  down  lanes 
Beyond  the  Jewry,  and  as  clean  to  pace, 
You  found  he  ate  his  supper  in  a  room 
Blazing  with  lights,  four  Titians  on  the  wall, 
And  twenty  naked  girls  to  change  his  plate! 
Poor  man,  he  lived  another  kind  of  life 
In  that  new  stuccoed  third  house  by  the  bridge, 
Fresh-painted,  rather  smart  than  otherwise! 
The  whole  street  might  o'erlook  him  as  he  sat, 
Leg  crossing  leg,  one  foot  on  the  dog's  back, 
Playing  a  decent  cribbage  with  his  maid 
(Jacynth,  you  're  sure  her  name  was)  o'er  the  cheese 
And  fruit,  three  red  halves  of  starved  winter-pears, 
Or  treat  of  radishes  in  April.     Nine, 
Ten,  struck  the  church  clock,  straight  to  bed  went  he. 

My  father,  like  the  man  of  sense  he  was, 
Would  point  him  out  to  me  a  dozen  times; 
"St— st,"  he  'd  whisper,  "the  Corregidor!" 
I  had  been  used  to  think  that  personage 
Was  one  with  lacquered  breeches,  lustrous  belt, 
And  feathers  like  a  forest  in  his  hat, 
Who  blew  a  trumpet  and  proclaimed  the  news, 
Announced  the  bull-fights,  gave  each  church  its  turn, 
And  memorized  the  miracle  in  vogue! 
He  had  a  great  observance  from  us  boys; 
We  were  in  error;  that  was  not  the  man. 

I  'd  like  now,  yet  had  haply  been  afraid, 
To  have  just  looked,  when  this  man  came  to  die, 


PJROTVS.  193 

And  seen  who  lined  the  clean  gay  garret  sides, 

And  stood  about  the  neat  low  truckle-bed, 

With  the  heavenly  manner  of  relieving  guard. 

Here  had  been,  mark,  the  general-in-chief, 

Thro'  a  whole  campaign  of  the  world's  life  and  death, 

Doing  the  King's  work  all  the  dim  day  long, 

In  his  old  coat  and  up  to  knees  in  mud, 

Smoked  like  a  herring,  dining  on  a  crust, — 

And,  now  the  day  was  won,  relieved  at  once! 

No  further  show  or  need  of  that  old  coat, 

You  are  sure,  for  one  thing!     Bless  us,  all  the  while 

How  sprucely  we  are  dressed  out,  you  and  I! 

A  second,  and  the  angels  alter  that. 

"Well,  I  could  never  write  a  verse, — could  you? 

Let 's  to  the  Prado  and  make  the  most  of  time. 


PKOTUS. 

AMONG  these  latter  busts  we  count  by  scores, 

Half-emperors  and  quarter-emperors, 

Each  with  his  bay-leaf  fillet,  loose-thonged  vest, 

Loric  and  low-browed  Gorgon  on  the  breast, — 

One  loves  a  baby  face,  with  violets  there, 

Violets  instead  of  laurel  in  the  hair, 

As  those  were  all  the  little  locks  could  bear. 

Now  read  here.     "Protus  ends  a  period 

Of  empery  beginning  with  a  god ; 

Born  in  the  porphyry  chamber  at  Byzant, 

Queens  by  his  cradle,  proud  and  ministrant: 

And  if  he  quickened  breath  there,  't  would  like  fire 

Pantingly  through  the  dim  vast  realm  transpire. 

A  fame  that  he  was  missing,  spread  afar : 

The  world,  from  its  four  corners,  rose  in  war, 


194  PROTUS. 

Till  he  was  borne  out  on  a  balcony 

To  pacify  the  world  when  it  should  see. 

The  captains  ranged  before  him,  one,  his  hand 

Made  baby  points  at,  gained  the  chief  command. 

And  day  by  day  more  beautiful  he  grew 

In  shape,  all  said,  in  feature  and  in  hue, 

While  young  Greek  sculptors  gazing  on  the  child 

Became,  with  old  Greek  sculpture,  reconciled. 

Already  sages  labored  to  condense 

In  easy  tomes  a  life's  experience: 

And  artists  took  grave  counsel  to  impart 

In  one  breath  and  one  hand-sweep,  all  their  art, 

And  make  his  graces  prompt  as  blossoming 

Of  plentifully  watered  palms  in  spring: 

Since  well  beseems  it,  whoso  mounts  the  throne, 

For  beauty,  knowledge,  strength,  should  stand  alone, 

And  mortals  love  the  letters  of  his  name." 

— Stop!   Have  you  turned  two  pages?    Still  the  same. 

New  reign,  same  date.     The  scribe  goes  on  to  say 

How  that  same  year,  on  such  a  month  and  day, 

"John  the  Pannonian,  groundedly  believed 

A  blacksmith's  bastard,  whose  hard  hand  reprieved 

The  Empire  from  its  fate  the  year  before, — 

Came,  had  a  mind  to  take  the  crown,  and  wore 

The  same  for  six  years,  (during  which  the  Huns 

Kept  off  their  fingers  from  us)  till  his  sons 

Put  something  in  his  liquor" — and  so  forth. 

Then  a  new  reign.     Stay — "Take  at  its  just  worth" 

(Subjoins  an  annotator)  "What  I  give 

As  hearsay.     Some  think,  John  let  Protus  live 

And  slip  away.     'T  is  said,  he  reached  man's  age 

At  some  blind  northern  court;  made,  first  a  page, 

Then  tutor  to  the  children;  last,  of  use 

About  the  hunting  stables.     I  deduce 


MASTER  HUGUES  OF  SAXE-OOTHA.  195 

He  wrote  the  little  tract  'On  worming  dogs,' 
Whereof  the  name  in  sundry  catalogues 
Is  extant  yet.     A  Protus  of  the  race 
Is  rumored  to  have  died  a  monk  in  Thrace, — 
And,  if  the  same,  he  reached  senility." 

Here  's  John  the  Smith's  rough-hammered  head.     Great 

eye, 

Gross  jaw  and  griped  lips  do  what  granite  can 
To  give  you  the  crown-grasper.     What  a  man! 


MASTEE  HUGUES  OF  SAXE-GOTHA. 
I. 

HIST,  but  a  word,  fair  and  soft! 

Forth  and  be  judged,  Master  Hugues! 
Answer  the  question  I  've  put  you  so  oft: 

What  do  you  mean  by  your  mountainous  fugues? 
See,  we're  alone  in  the  loft, — 

n. 

I,  the  poor  organist  here, 

Hugues,  the  composer  of  note, 
Dead  though,  and  done  with,  this  many  a  year: 

Let's  have  a  colloquy,  something  to  quote. 
Make  the  world  prick  up  its  ear ! 

in. 

See,  the  church  empties  apace : 

Fast  they  extinguish  the  lights. 
Hallo  there,  sacristan!     Five  minutes'  grace! 

Here  's  a  crank  pedal  wants  setting  to  rights 
Balks  one  of  holding  the  base. 


196  MASTER  HUOUES  OF  SAXE-GOTHA. 

IV. 

See,  our  huge  houses  of  the  sounds, 

Hushing  its  hundreds  at  once, 
Bids  the  last  loiterer  back  to  his  bounds! 

— 0  you  may  challenge  them,  not  a  response 
Get  the  church-saints  on  their  rounds ! 

v. 

(Saints  go  their  rounds,  who  shall  doubt? 

— March,  with  the  moon  to  admire, 
Up  nave,  down  chancel,  turn  transept  about, 

Supervise  all  betwixt  pavement  and  spire. 
Pat  rats  and  mice  to  the  rout — 

VI. 

Aloys  and  Jurien  and  Just — 

Order  things  back  to  their  place, 
Have  a  sharp  eye  lest  the  candlesticks  rust, 

Eub  the  church-plate,  darn  the  sacrament-lace, 
Clear  the  desk-velvet  of  dust.) 

VII. 

Here  's  your  book,  younger  folks  shelve! 

Played  I  not  off-hand  and  runningly, 
Just  now,  your  masterpiece,  hard  number  twelve? 

Here  's  what  should  strike,  could  one  handle  it  cun- 
ningly: 
Help  the  axe,  give  it  a  helve! 

VIII. 

Page  after  page  as  I  played, 

Every  bar's  rest,  where  one  wipes 
Sweat  from  one's  brow,  I  looked  up  and  surveyed, 

O'er  my  three  claviers,  yon  forest  of  pipes 
Whence  you  still  peeped  in  the  shade. 


MASTER  HUGUES  OF  8AXE-GOTHA.  197 

IX. 

Sure  you  were  wishful  to  speak, 

You,  with  brow  ruled  like  a  score, 
Yes,  and  eyes  buried  in  pits  on  each  cheek, 

Like  two  great  breves,  as  they  wrote  them  of  yore, 
Each  side  that  bar,  your  straight  beak! 

x. 

Sure  you  said — "Good,  the  mere  notes! 

Still,  couldst  thou  take  my  intent, 
Know  what  procured  me  our  Company's  votes— 

A  master  were  lauded  and  sciolists  shent, 
Parted  the  sheep  from  the  goats!" 

XI. 

Well,  then,  speak  up,  never  flinch! 

Quick,  ere  my  candle  's  a  snuff 
— Burnt,  do  you  see?  to  its  uttermost  inch— 

I  believe  in  you,  but  that 's  not  enough: 
Give  my  conviction  a  clinch ! 

xn. 

First  you  deliver  your  phrase 

— Nothing  propound,  that  I  see, 
Fit  in  itself  for  much  blame  or  much  praise — 

Answered  no  less,  where  no  answer  needs  be: 
Off  start  the  Two  on  their  ways. 

XIII. 

Staight  must  a  Third  interpose, 

Volunteer  needlessly  help; 
In  strikes  a  Fourth,  a  Fifth  thrusts  in  his  nose, 

So  the  cry  's  open,  the  kennel  's  a-yelp, 
Argument  's  hot  to  the  close. 


198  MASTER  HUGUES  OF  SAXE-GOTHA. 

XIV. 

One  dissertates,  he  is  candid; 

Two  must  discept, — has  distinguished; 
Three  helps  the  couple,  if  ever  yet  man  did; 

Four  protests;  Five  makes  a  dart  at  the  thing  wished: 
Back  to  One,  goes  the  case  bandied. 

xv. 

One  says  his  say  with  a  difference; 

ti  •/  / 

More  of  expounding,  explaining! 
All  now  is  wrangle,  abuse  and  vociferauce; 

Now  there  's  a  truce,  all  's  subdued,  self -restraining; 
Five,  though,  stands  out  all  the  stiffer  hence. 

XVI. 

One  is  incisive,  corrosive; 

Two  retorts,  nettled,  curt,  crepitant; 
Three  makes  rejonder,  expansive,  explosive; 

Four  overbears  them  all,  strident  and  strepitant: 
Five    ...     0  Danaides,  0  Sieve! 

XVII. 

Now,  they  ply  axes,  and  crowbars; 

Now,  they  prick  pins  at  a  tissue 
Fine  as  a  skein  of  the  casuist  Escobar's 

Worked  on  the  bone  of  a  lie.     To  what  issue? 
Where  is  our  gain  at  the  Two-bars? 

XVIII. 

Estfuga,  volvitur  rota. 

On  we  drift:  where  looms  the  dim  port? 
One,  Two,  Three,  Four,  Five,  contribute  their  quota; 

Something  is  gained,  if  one  caught  but  the  import — 
Show  it  us  Hugues  of  Saxe-Gotha! 


MASTER  HUQUES  OF  SAXE-QOTHA.  199 

XIX, 

What  with  affirming,  denying, 

Holding,  risposting,  subjoining, 

All 's  like    .     .     .    it 's  like     .     .     .    for  an  instance  I  'm 
trying     .     .     . 

There!     See  our  roof,  its  gilt  moulding  and  groining 
Under  those  spider-webs  lying! 

xx. 

So  your  fugue  broadens  and  thickens, 

Greatens  and  deepens  and  lengthens, 
Till  we  exclaim — ''But  where  's  music,  the  dickens? 

Blot  ye  the  gold,  while  your  spider-web  strengthens 
— Blacked  to  the  stoutest  of  tickens?" 

XXI. 

I  for  man's  effort  am  zealous: 

Prove  me  such  censure  unfounded ! 
Seems  it  surprising  a  lover  grows  jealous — 

Hopes  't  was  for  something,  his  organ  pipes  sounded, 
Tiring  three  boys  at  the  bellows? 

xxn. 

Is  it  your  moral  of  Life? 

Such  a  web,  simple  and  subtle, 
Weave  we  on  earth  here  in  impotent  strife, 

Backward  and  forward  each  throwing  his  shuttle, 
Death  ending  all  with  a  knife? 

XXIII. 

Over  our  heads  truth  and  nature — 

Still  our  life's  zigzags  and  dodges, 
Ins  and  outs,  weaving  a  new  legislature — 

God's  gold  just  shining  its  last  where  that  lodges, 
Palled  beneath  man's  usurpature. 


200  MASTER  HUGUES  OF  SAKE-GOTH  A. 

XXIV. 

So  we  o'ershrond  stars  and  roses, 

Cherub  and  trophy  and  garland ; 
Nothings  grow  something  which  quietly  closes 

Heaven's  earnest  eye :  not  a  glimpse  of  the  far  land 
Gets  through  our  comments  and  glozes. 

XXV. 

Ah  but  traditions,  inventions, 

(Say  we  and  make  up  a  visage) 
So  many  men  with  such  various  intentions, 

Down  the  past  ages,  must  know  more  than  this  age. 
Leave  we  the  web  its  dimensions! 

XXVI. 

Who  thinks  Hugues  wrote  for  the  deaf, 

Proved  a  mere  mountain  in  labor? 
Better  submit;  try  again;  what  's  the  clef? 

'Faith,  't  is  no  trifle  for  pipe  and  for  tabor — 
Four  flats,  the  minor  in  F. 

XXVII. 

Friend,  your  fugue  taxes  the  finger: 

Learning  it  once,  who  would  lose  it? 
Yet  all  the  while  a  misgiving  will  linger, 

Truth  's  golden  o'er  us  although  we  refuse  it — 
Nature,  thro'  cobwebs  we  string  her. 

XXVIII. 

Hugues !    I  advise  med  pcend 

(Counterpoint  glares  like  a  Gorgon) 
Bid  One,  Two,  Three,  Four,  Five,  clear  the  arena! 

Say  the  word,  straight  I  unstop  the  full-organ, 
Blare  out  the  mode  Palestrina, 


ART  VOGLER.  201 

XXIX. 

While  in  the  roof,  if  I'm  right  there, 

.  .  .  Lo  you,  the  wick  in  the  socket! 
Hallo,  you  sacristan,  show  us  a  light  there! 

Down  it  dips,  gone  like  a  rocket. 
What,  you  want,  do  you,  to  come  unawares, 
Sweeping  the  church  up  for  first  morning-prayers, 
And  find  a  poor  devil  has  ended  his  cares 
At  the  foot  of  your  rotten-runged  rat-riddled  stairs? 

Do  I  carry  the  moon  in  my  pocket? 


ABT  VOGLER. 

(AFTER  HE  HAS  BEEN   EXTEMPORIZING  UPON  THE  MU- 
SICAL INSTRUMENT  OF   HIS  INVENTION.) 


I. 

WOULD  that  the  structure  brave,  the  manifold  music  I 

build, 

Bidding  my  organ  obey,  calling  its  keys  to  their  work, 
Claiming  each  slave  of  the  sound,  at  a  touch,  as  when 

Solomon  willed 

Armies  of  angels  that  soar,  legions  of  demons  that  lurk, 
Man,  brute,  reptile,  fly, — alien  of  end  and  of  aim, 
Adverse,  each  from  the  other  heaven-high,  hell-deep 

removed, — 
Should  rush  into  sight  at  once  as  he  named  the  ineffable 

Name, 

And  pile  him  a  palace  straight  to  pleasure  the  princess 
he  loved! 


202  ABT  VOGLER. 

II. 

Would  it  might  tarry  like  his,  the  beautiful  building  of 

mine, 
This  which  my  keys  in  a  crowd  pressed  and  importuned 

to  raise ! 
Ah,  one  and  all,  how  they  helped,  would  dispart  now  and 

now  combine, 
Zealous  to  hasten  the  work,  heighten  their  master  his 

praise ! 
And  one  would  bury  his  brow  with  a  blind  plunge  down  to 

hell, 

Burrow  awhile  and  build,  broad  on  the  roots  of  things, 
Then   up  again  swim  into  sight,  having  based  me  my 

palace  well, 
Founded  it,  fearless  of  flame,  flat  on  the  nether  springs. 

in. 

And  another  would  mount  and  march,  like  the  excellent 

minion  he  was, 
Ay,  another  and  yet  another,  one  crowd  but  with  many 

a  crest, 
Eaising  my  rampired  walls  of  gold  as  transparent  as  glass, 

Eager  to  do  and  die,  yield  each  his  place  to  the  rest: 
For  higher  still  and  higher  (as  a  runner  tips  with  fire, 
When  a  great  illumination  surprises  a  festal  night — 
Outlining  round  and  round  Rome's  dome  from  space  to 

spire) 

Up,  the  pinnacled  glory  reached,  and  the  pride  of  my 
soul  was  in  sight. 

IV. 

In  sight?    Not  half!   for  it  seemed,  it  was  certain,  to 

match  man's  birth, 
Nature  in  turn  conceived,  obeying  an  impulse  as  I; 


ABT  VOGLER.  203 

And  the  emulous  heaven  yearned  down,  made  effort  to 

reach  the  earth, 
As  the  earth  had  done  her  best,  in  my  passion,  to  scale 

the  sky: 
Novel  splendors  burst  forth,  grew  familiar  and  dwelt  with 

mine, 
Not  a  point  nor  peak  but  found,  but  fixed  its  wandering 

star; 
Meteor-moons,  balls  of  blaze:  and  they  did  not  pale  nor 

pine, 

For  earth  had  attained  to  heaven,  there  was  no  more 
near  nor  far. 

v. 

Nay  more ;  for  there  wanted  not  who  walked  in  the  glare 

and  glow, 

Presences  plain  in  the  place ;  or,  fresh  from  the  Proto- 
plast, 
Furnished  for  ages  to  come,  when  a  kindlier  wind  should 

blow, 
Lured  now  to  begin  and  live,  in  a  house  to  their  liking 

at  last; 
Or  else  the  wonderful  Dead  who  have  passed  through  the 

body  and  gone, 
But  were  back  once  more  to  breathe  in  an  old  world 

worth  their  new: 
What  never  had  been,  was  now;  what  was,  as  it  shall  be 

anon; 

And  what  is, — shall  I  say,  matched  both?  for  I  was 
made  perfect  too. 

VI. 

All  through  my  keys  that  gave  their  sounds  to  a  wish  of 

my  soul, 

All  through  my  soul  that  praised  as  its  wish  flowed  visibly 
forth, 


204.  ABT  VOOLER. 

All  through  music  and  me!    Forthink,  had  I  painted  the 

whole, 
Why,  there  it  had  stood,  to  see,  nor  the  process  so  won- 

derworth. 
Had  I  written  the  same,  made  verse — still  effect  proceeds 

from  cause, 
Ye  know  why  the  forms  are  fair,  ye  hear  how  the  tale  is 

told; 

It  is  all  triumphant  art,  but  art  in  obedience  to  laws, 
Painter  and  poet  are  proud,  in  the  artist-list  enrolled : — 

VII. 

But  here  is  the  finger  of  God,  a  flash  of  the  will  that  can, 
Existent  behind  all  laws :   that  made  them,  and,  lo,  they 

are! 

And  I  know  not  if,  save  in  this,  such  gift  be  allowed  to  man, 
That  out  of  three  sounds  he  frame,  not  a  fourth  sound 

but  a  star. 
Consider  it  well:  each  tone  of    our    scale    in    itself  is 

nought; 

It  is  everywhere  in  the  world — loud,  soft,  and  all  is  said: 
Give  it  to  me  to  use!  I  mix  it  with  two  in  my  thought, 
And,  there!    Ye  have  heard  and  seen:   consider   and 
bow  the  head! 

VIII. 

Well,  it  is  gone  at  last,  the-palace  of  music  I  reared; 
Gone !  and  the  good  tears  start,  the  praises  that  come 

too  slow ; 

For  one  is  assured  at  first,  one  scarce  can  say  that  he  feared, 
That  he  even  gave  it  a  thought,  the  gone  thing  was  to  go. 
Never  to  be  again !     But  many  more  of  the  kind 

As  good,  nay,  better  perchance:  is  this  your  comfort  to 

me? 

To  me,  who  must  be  saved  because  I  cling  with  my  mind 
To  the  same,  same  self,  same  love,  same  God:  ay,  what 
was,  shall  be.    r 


AST  VOGLER.  205 

IX. 

Therefore  to  whom  turn  I  but  to  thee,  the  ineffable  Name? 
Builder  and  maker,  thou,  of  houses  not  made  with 

hands! 
What,  have  fear  of  change  from  thee  who  art  ever  the 

same? 
Doubt  that  thy  power  can  fill  the  heart  that  thy  power 

expands? 
There  shall  never  be  one  lost  good !     What  was,  shall  live 

as  before; 

The  evil  is  null,  is  nought,  is  silence  implying  sound; 
What  was  good,  shall  be  good,  with,  for  evil,  so  much 

good  more; 

On  the  earth  the  broken  arcs;  in  the  heaven,  a  perfect 
round. 

x. 

All  we  have  willed  or  hoped  or  dreamed  of  good,  shall 

exist ; 
Not  its  semblance,  but  itself;  no  beauty,  nor  good,  nor 

power 
Whose  voice  has  gone  forth,  but  each  survives  for  the 

melodist, 

When  eternity  affirms  the  conception  of  an  hour. 
The  high  that  proved  too  high,  the  heroic  for  earth  too 

hard, 

The  passion  that  left  the  ground  to  lose  itself  in  the  sky 
Are  music  sent  up  to  God  by  the  lover  and  the  bard; 
Enough  that  he  heard  it  once :  we  shall  hear  it  by-and- 
by. 

XI. 

And  what  is  our  failure  here  but  a  triumph's  evidence 
For  the  fulness  of  the  days?    Have  we  withered  or 
agonized? 


206  TWO  IN  THE  CAMPAQNA. 

Why  else  was  the  pause  prolonged  but  that  singing  might 

issue  thence? 
Why  rush  the  discords  in,  but  that  harmony  should  be 

prized? 

Sorrow  is  hard  to  bear,  and  doubt  is  slow  to  clear, 
Each  sufferer  says  his  say,  his  scheme  of  the  weal  and 

woe: 

But  God  has  a  few  of  us  whom  he  whispers  in  the  ear; 
The  rest  may  reason  and  welcome;  't  is  we  musicians 
know. 

XII. 

Well,  it  is  earth  with  me;  silence  resumes  her  reign: 

I  will  be  patient  and  proud,  and  soberly  acquiesce. 
Give  me  the  keys.     I  feel  for  the  common  chord  again, 

Sliding  by  semitones,  till  I  sink  to  the  minor, — yes, 
And  I  blunt  it  into  a  ninth,  and  I  stand  on  alien  ground, 

Surveying  awhile  the  heights  I  rolled  from  into  the  deep; 
Which,  hark,  I  have  dared  and  done,  for  my  resting-place 
is  found, 

The  C  Major  of  this  life:  so,  now  I  will  try  to  sleep. 


TWO  IN  THE  CAMPAGNA. 
i. 

I  WONDER  do  you  feel  to-day 
As  I  have  felt  since,  hand  in  hand, 

We  sat  down  on  the  grass,  to  stray 
In  spirit  better  through  the  land, 

This  morn  of  Eome  and  May? 

11. 

For  me,  I  touched  a  thought,  I  know, 
Has  tantalized  me  many  times, 

(Like  turns  of  thread  the  spiders  throw 
Mocking  across  our  path)  for  rhymes 

To  catch  at  and  let  go. 


TWO  IN  THE  CAMP  A  ON  A.  207 


III. 


Help  me  to  hold  it!    First  it  left 
The  yellowing  fennel,  run  to  seed 

There,  branching  from  the  brickwork's  cleft, 
Some  old  tomb's  ruin :  yonder  weed 

Took  up  the  floating  weft, 


IV. 

Where  one  small  orange  cup  amassed 
Five  beetles, — blind  and  green  they  grope 

Among  the  honey-meal :  and  last, 
Everywhere  on  the  grassy  slope, 

I  traced  it.     Hold  it  fast ! 

v. 

The  champaign  with  its  endless  fleece 

Of  feathery  grasses  everywhere! 
Silence  and  passion,  joy  and  peace, 

An  everlasting  wash  of  air — 
Rome's  ghost  since  her  decease. 

VI. 

Such  life  here,  through  such  lengths  of  hours, 
Such  miracles  performed  in  play, 

Such  primal  naked  forms  of  flowers, 
Such  letting  nature  have  her  way 

While  heaven  looks  from  its  towers! 

VII. 

How  say  you?    Let  us,  0  my  dove, 

Let  us  be  unashamed  of  soul, 
As  earth  lies  bare  to  heaven  above! 

How  is  it  under  our  control 
To  love  or  not  to  love? 


208  TWO  IN  THE  CAMP  AON  A. 

VIII. 

I  would  that  you  were  all  to  me, 
You  that  are  just  so  much,  no  more. 

Nor  yours  nor  mine,  nor  slave  nor  free ! 
Where  does  the  fault  lie?    What  the  core 

0'  the  wound,  since  wound  must  be? 

IX. 

I  would  I  could  adopt  your  will, 

See  with  your  eyes,  and  set  my  heart 

Beating  by  yours,  and  drink  my  fill 
At  your  soul's  springs, — your  part,  my  part 

In  life,  for  good  and  ill. 

x. 

No.     I  yearn  upward,  touch  you  close, 
Then  stand  away.     I  kiss  your  cheek, 

Catch  your  soul's  warmth, — I  pluck  the  rose 
And  love  it  more  than  tongue  can  speak — 

Then  the  good  minute  goes. 

XI. 

Already  how  am  I  so  far 

Out  of  that  minute?    Must  I  go 

Still  like  the  thistle-ball,  no  bar, 
Onward,  whenever  light  winds  blow, 

Fixed  by  no  friendly  star? 

xn. 

Just  when  I  seemed  about  to  learn ! 

Where  is  the  thread  now?    Off  again! 
The  old  trick !     Only  I  discern — 

Infinite  passion,  and  the  pain 
Of  finite  hearts  that  yearn. 


"  DE  0  USTIB  US-"  209 

"DE  GUSTIBUS— " 
i. 

YOUR  ghost  will  walk,  you  lover  of  trees, 

(If  our  loves  remain) 

In  an  English  lane, 

By  a  cornfield-side  a-flutter  with  poppies. 
Hark,  those  two  in  the  hazel  coppice — 
A  boy  and  a  girl,  if  the  good  fates  please, 

Making  love,  say, — • 

The  happier  they! 

Draw  yourself  up  from  the  light  of  the  moon, 
And  let  them  pass,  as  they  will  too  soon, 

With  the  beanflower's  boon, 

And  the  blackbird's  tune, 

And  May,  and  June ! 

n. 

What  I  love  best  in  alltthe  world 
Is  a  castle,  precipice-encurled, 
In  a  gash  of  the  wind-grieved  Apennine. 
Or  look  for  me,  old  fellow  of  mine, 
(If  I  get  my  head  from  out  the  mouth 
0'  the  grave,  and  loose  my  spirit's  bands, 
And  come  again  to  the  land  of  lands) — 
In  a  sea-side  house  to  the  farther  South, 
Where  the  baked  cicala  dies  of  drouth, 
And   one  sharp  tree — 't  is  a  cypress — stands, 
By  the  many  hundred  years  red-rusted, 
Rough,  iron-spiked,  ripe  fruit-o'ercrusted, 
My  sentinel  to  guard  the  sands 
To  the  water's  edge.     For,  what  expands 
Before  the  house,  but  the  great  opaque 
Blue  breadth  of  sea  without  a  break? 


210  THE  GUARDIAN-ANGEL. 

While,  in  the  house,  for  ever  crumbles 

Some  fragment  of  the  frescoed  walls, 

From  blisters  where  a  scorpion  sprawls. 

A  girl  bare-footed  brings,  and  tumbles 

Down  on  the  pavement,  green-flesh  melons, 

And  says  there  's  news  to-day — the  king 

Was  shot  at,  touched  in  the  liver-wing, 

Goes  with  his  Bourbon  arm  in  a  sling: 

— She  hopes  they  have  not  caught  the  felons. 

Italy,  my  Italy ! 

Queen  Mary's  saying  serves  for  me — 

(When  fortune's  malice 

Lost  her,  Calais) 
Open  my  heart  and  you  will  see 
Graved  inside  of  it,  "Italy." 
Such  lovers  old  are  I  and  she: 
So  it  always  was,  so  shall  ever  be ! 


THE  GUAKDIAN-ANGEL. 

A    PICTURE  AT    FANO. 
I. 

DEAR  and  great  Angel,  wouldst  thou  only  leave 
That  child,  when  thou  hast  done  with  him,  for  me; 

Let  me  sit  all  the  day  here,  that  when  eve 
Shall  find  performed  thy  special  ministry, 

And  time  come,  for  departure,  thou,  suspending 

Thy  flight,  may'st  see  another  child  for  tending, 
Another  still  to  quiet  and  retrieve. 


THE  GUARDIAN- ANGEL.  211 

II. 

Then  I  shall  feel  thee  step  one  step,  no  more, 
From  where  thou  standest  now,  to  where  I  gaze. 

— And  suddenly  my  head  is  covered  o'er 

With  those  wings,  white  above  the  child  who  prays 

Now  on  that  tomb — and  I  shall  feel  thee  guarding 

Me,  out  of  all  the  world ;  for  me,  discarding 
Yon  heaven  thy  home,  that  waits  and  opes  its  door. 

in. 

I  would  not  look  up  thither  past  thy  head 

Because  the  door  opes,  like  that  child,  I  know, 

For  I  should  have  thy  gracious  face  instead, 

Thou  bird  of  God !     And  wilt  thou  bend  me  low 

Like  him,  and  lay,  like  his,  my  hands  together, 

And  lift  them  up  to  pray,  and  gently  tether 

Me,  as  thy  lamb  there,  with  thy  garment's  spread? 

IV. 

If  this  was  ever  granted,  I  would  rest 

My  head  beneath  thine,  while  thy  healing  hands 

Close-covered  both  my  eyes  beside  thy  breast, 

Pressing  the  brain  which  too  much  thought  expands, 

Back  to  its  proper  size  again,  and  smoothing 

Distortion  down  till  every  nerve  had  soothing, 
And  all  lay  quiet,  happy  and  suppressed. 

Y. 

How  soon  all  worldly  wrong  would  be  repaired ! 

I  think  how  I  should  view  the  earth  and  skies 
And  s,ea,  when  once  again  my  brow  was  bared 

After  thy  healing,  with  such  different  eyes. 
0  world,  as  God  has  made  it!  All  is  beauty: 
And  knowing  this  is  love,  and  love  is  duty, 

What  further  may  be  sought  for  or  declared? 


212  EVELYN  HOPE. 

VI. 

Guercino  drew  this  angel  I  saw  teach 

(Alfred,  dear  friend!) — that  little  child  to  pray, 

Holding  the  little  hands  up,  each  to  each 

Pressed  gently, — with  his  own  head  turned  away 

Over  the  earth  where  so  much  lay  before  him 

Of  work  to  do,  though  heaven  was  opening  o'er  him, 
And  he  was  left  at  Fano  by  the  beach. 

VII. 

We  were  at  Fano,  and  three  times  we  went 
To  sit  and  see  him  in  his  chapel  there, 

And  drink  his  beauty  to  our  soul's  content 
— My  angel  with  me  too:  and  since  I  care 

For  dear  Guercino's  fame  (to  which  in  power 

And  glory  comes  this  picture  for  a  dower, 
Fraught  with  a  pathos  so  magnificent), 

VIII. 

And  since  he  did  not  work  thus  earnestly 

At  all  times,  and  has  else  endured  some  wrong — 

I  took  one  thought  his  picture  struck  from  me, 
And  spread  it  out,  translating  it  to  song. 

My  love  is  here.     Where  are  you,  dear  old  friend? 

How  rolls  the  Wairoa  at  your  world's  far  end? 
This  is  Ancona,  yonder  is  the  sea. 


EVELYN  HOPE, 
i. 

BEAUTIFUL  Evelyn  Hope  is  dead ! 

Sit  and  watch  by  her  side  an  hour. 
That  is  her  book-shelf,  this  her  bed; 

She  plucked  that  piece  of  geranium-flower, 


EVELYN  HOPE.  213 

Beginning  to  die  too,  in  the  glass; 

Little  has  yet  been  changed,  I  think: 
The  shutters  are  shut,  no  light  may  pass 

Save  two  long  rays  thro'  the  hinge's  chink. 

IT. 

Sixeen  years  old  when  she  died ! 

Perhaps  she  had  scarcely  heard  my  name; 
It  was  not  her  time  to  love;  beside, 

Her  life  had  many  a  hope  and  aim, 
Duties  enough  and  little  cares, 

And  now  was  quiet,  now  astir, 
Till  God's  hand  beckoned  unawares, — 

And  the  sweet  white  brow  is  all  of  her. 

in.  ' 

Is  it  too  late  then,  Evelyn  Hope? 

What,  your  soul  was  pure  and  true, 
The  good  stars  met  in  your  horoscope, 

Made  you  of  spirit,  fire  and  dew — 
And,  just  because  I  was  thrice  as  old 

And  our  paths  in  the  world  diverged  so  wide, 
Each  was  nought  to  each,  must  I  be  told 

We  were  fellow  mortals,  nought  beside? 

IV. 

No,  indeed !  for  God  above 

Is  great  to  grant,  as  mighty  to  make, 
And  creates  the  love  to  reward  the  love: 

I  claim  you  still,  for  my  own  love's  sake ! 
Delayed  it  may  be  for  more  lives  yet, 

Through  worlds  I  shall  traverse,  not  a  few : 
Much  is  to  learn,  much  to  forget 

Ere  the  time  be  come  for  taking  you. 


214  EVELYN  HOPE. 

V. 

Bat  the  time  will  come, — at  last  it  will, 

When,  Evelyn  Hope,  what  meant  (I  shall  say) 
In  the  lower  earth,  in  the  years  long  still, 

That  body  and  soul  so  pure  and  gay? 
Why  your  hair  was  amber,  I  shall  divine, 

And  your  mouth  of  your  own  geranium's  red — 
And  what  you  would  do  with  me,  in  fine, 

In  the  new  life  come  in  the  old  one's  stead. 

VI. 

I  have  lived  (I  shall  say)  so  much  since  then 

Given  up  myself  so  many  times, 
Gained  me  the  gains  of  various  men, 

Kansacked  the  ages,  spoiled  the  climes; 
Yet  one  thing,  one,  in  my  soul's  full  scope, 

Either  I  missed  or  itself  missed  me: 
And  I  want  and  find  you,  Evelyn  Hope! 

What  is  the  issue?  let  us  see! 

VII. 

I  loved  you,  Evelyn,  all  the  while! 

My  heart  seemed  full  as  it  could  hold; 
There  was  place  and  to  spare  for  the  frank'young  smile, 

And  the  red  young  mouth,  and  the  hair's  young  gold. 
So  hush, — I  will  give  you  this  leaf  to  keep : 

See,  I  shut  it  inside  the  sweet  cold  hand ! 
There,  that  is  our  secret :  go  to  sleep ! 

You  will  wake,  and  remember,  and  understand. 


APPARENT  FAIL  URE.  2 15 

MEMORABILIA. 

i. 

AH,  did  yon  once  see  Shelley  plain, 

And  did  he  stop  and  speak  to  you, 
And  did  yon  speak  to  him  again? 

How  strange  it  seems,  and  new ! 

ii. 

But  you  were  living  before  that, 

And  also  you  are  living  after; 
And  the  memory  I  started  at — 

My  starting  moves  your  laughter! 

in. 

I  crossed  a  moor,  with  a  name  of  its  own 
And  a  certain  use  in  the  world,  no  doubt, 

Yet  a  hand's-breadth  of  it  shines  alone 
'Mid  the  blank  miles  round  about: 

IV. 

For  there  I  picked  up  on  the  heather 

And  there  I  put  inside  my  breast 
A  moulted  feather,  an  eagle-feather! 

Well,  I  forget  the  rest. 


APPARENT    FAILURE. 

"We  shall  soon  lose  a  celebrated  building." 

—Paris  Newspaper. 
I. 

No,  for  I  '11  save  it!     Seven  years  since, 
I  passed  through  Paris,  stopped  a  day 

To  see  the  baptism  of  your  Prince; 
Saw,  made  my  bow,  and  went  my  way: 


216  A  PPA  RENT  FAIL  USE. 

Walking  the  heat  and  headache  off, 
I  took  the  Seine-side,  you  surmise, 

Thought  of  the  Congress,  Gortschakoff, 
Cavour's  appeal  and  Buol's  replies, 

So  sauntered  till  —  what  met  my  eyes? 


Only  the  Doric  little  Morgue! 

The  dead-house  where  you  show  your  drowned: 
Petrarch's  Vaucluse  makes  proud  the  Sorgue, 

Your  Morgue  has  made  the  Seine  renowned. 
One  pays  one's  debt  in  such  a  case; 

I  plucked  up  heart  and  entered,  —  stalked, 
Keeping  a  tolerable  face 

Compared  with  some  whose  cheeks  were  chalked: 
Let  them  !    No  Briton  's  to  be  baulked  ! 

in. 

First  came  the  silent  gazers;  next, 

A  screen  of  glass,  we  're  thankful  for; 
Last,  the  sight's  self,  the  sermon's  text, 

The  three  men  who  did  most  abhor 
Their  life  in  Paris  yesterday, 

So  killed  themselves:  and  now,  enthroned 
Each  on  his  copper  couch,  they  lay 

Fronting  me,  waiting  to  be  owned. 
I  thought,  and  think,  their  sin  's  atoned. 


IT. 


Poor  men,  God  made,  and  all  for  that! 

The  reverence  struck  me;  o'er  each  head 
Religiously  was  hung  its  hat, 

Each  coat  dripped  by  the  owner's  bed, 


APPARENT  FAILURE.  217 

Sacred  from  touch:  each  had  his  berth, 
His  bounds,  his  proper  place  of  rest, 

Who  last  night  tenanted  on  earth 
Some  arch,  where  twelve  such  slept  abreast,— 

Unless  the  plain  asphalte  seemed  best. 

v. 
How  did  it  happen,  my  poor  boy? 

You  wanted  to  be  Buonaparte 
And  have  the  Tuileries  for  toy, 

And  could  not,  so  it  broke  your  heart? 
You,  old  one  by  his  side,  I  judge, 

Were,  red  as  blood,  a  socialist, 
A  leveller!     Does  the  Empire  grudge 

You  've  gained  what  no  Republic  missed? 
Be  quiet,  and  unclench  your  fist! 

VI. 

And  this — why,  he  was  red  in  vain, 

Or  black, — poor  fellow  that  is  blue! 
What  fancy  was  it,  turned  your  brain? 

Oh,  women  were  the  prize  for  you! 
Money  gets  women,  cards  and  dice 

Get  money,  and  ill-luck  gets  just 
The  copper  couch  and  one  clear  nice 

Cool  squirt  of  water  o'er  your  bust, 
The  right  thing  to  extinguish  lust! 

VII. 

It  *s  wiser  being  good  than  bad; 

It  's  safer  being  meek  than  fierce: 
It  's  fitter  being  sane  than  mad. 

My  own  hope  is,  a  sun  will  pierce 
The  thickest  cloud  earth  ever  stretched; 

That,  after  Last,  returns  the  First, 
Though  a  wide  compass  rpund  be  fetched; 

That  what  began  best,  can't  end  worst, 
Nor  what  God  blessed  once,  prove  accurst. 


218  PROSPICE. 


PROSPICE. 

FEAR  death? — to  feel  the  fog  in  my  throat, 

The  mist  in  my  face, 
When  the  snows  begin,  and  the  blasts  denote 

I  am  nearing  the  place, 
The  power  of  the  night,  the  press  of  the  storm, 

The  post  of  the  foe; 
Where  he  stands,  the  Arch  Fear  in  a  visible  form, 

Yet  the  strong  man  must  go: 
For  the  journey  is  done  and  the  summit  attained, 

And  the  barriers  fall, 
Though  a  battle  's  to  fight  ere  the  guerdon- be  gained, 

The  reward  of  it  all. 
I  was  ever  a  fighter,  so — one  fight  more, 

The  best  and  the  last! 
I  would  hate  that  death  bandaged  my  eyes,  and  forbore, 

And  bade  me  creep  past. 
No!  let  me  taste  the  whole  of  it,  fare  like  my  peers 

The  heroes  of  old, 
Bear  the  brunt,  in  a  minute  pay  glad  life's  arrears 

Of  pain,  darkness  and  cold. 
For  sudden  the  worst  turns  the  best  to  the  brave, 

The  black  minute  's  at  end, 
And  the  elements'  rage,  the  fiend-voices  that  rave, 

Shall  dwindle,  shall  blend, 
Shall  change,  shall  become  first  a  peace  out  of  pain, 

Then  a  light,  then  thy  breast, 
Oh  thou  soul  of  my  soul!  I  shall  clasp  thee  again, 

And  with  God  be  the  rest! 


CUILDE  ROLAND  TO  THE  DARK  TOWER  CAME."    219 


"CHILDE  KOLAND  TO  THE  DAKK  TOWEK 
CAME." 

(See  Edgar's  song  in  "LEAR.") 
I. 

MY  first  thought  was,  he  lied  in  every  word, 
That  hoary  cripple,  with  malicious  eye 
Askance  to  watch  the  working  of  his  lie 
On  mine,  and  mouth  scarce  able  to  afford 
Suppression  of  the  glee,  that  pursed  and  scored 
Its  edge,  at  one  more  victim  gained  thereby. 

ii. 

What  else  should  he  he  set  for,  with  his  staff? 
What,  save  to  waylay  with  his  lies,  ensnare 
All  travellers  who  might  find  him  posted  there, 
And  ask  the  road?     I  guessed  what  skull-like  laugh 
Would  break,  what  crutch  'gin  write  my  epitaph 
For  pastime  in  the  dusty  thoroughfare, 

in. 

• 

If  at  his  council  I  should  turn  aside 

Into  that  ominous  tract  which,  all  agree, 
Hides  the  Dark  Tower.     Yet  acquiescingly 

I  did  turn  as  he  pointed:  neither  pride 

Nor  hope  rekindling  at  the  end  descried, 
So  much  as  gladness  that  some  end  might  be. 

IV. 

For,  what  with  my  whole  world-wide  wandering, 

What  with  my  search  drawn  out  thro'  years,  my  hope 
Dwindled  into  a  ghost  not  fit  to  cope 

With  that  obstreperous  joy  success  would  bring, — 

I  hardly  tried  now  to  rebuke  the  spring 
My  heart  made,  finding  failure  in  its  scope. 


220    "  CHILDE  ROLAND  TO  THE  DARE  TOWER  GAME." 

v. 

As  when  a  sick  man  very  near  to  death 

Seems  dead  indeed,  and  feels  begin  and  end 
The  tears  and  takes  the  farewell  of  each  friend, 
And  hears  one  bid  the  other  go,  draw  breath, 
Freelier  outside,  ("since  all  is  o'er,"  he  saith, 
"And  the  blow  fallen  no  grieving  can  amend;") 

VI. 

While  some  discuss  if  near  the  other  graves 
Be  room  enough  for  this,  and  when  a  day 
Suits  best  for  carrying  the  corpse  away, 
With  care  about  the  banners,  scarves  and  staves: 
And  still  the  man  hears  all,  and  only  craves 
He  may  not  shame  such  tender  love  and  stay. 

VII. 

Thus,  I  had  so  long  suffered  in  this  quest, 
Heard  failure  prophesied  so  oft,  been  writ 
So  many  times  among  "The  Band" — to  wit, 
The  knights  who  to  the  Dark  Tower's  search  addressed 
Their  steps — that  just  to  fail  as  they,  seemed  best, 
And  all  the  doubt  was  now — should  I  be  fit? 

VIII. 

So,  quiet  as  despair,  I  turned  from  him, 
That  hateful  cripple,  out  of  his  highway 
Into  the  path  he  pointed.     All  the  day 
Had  been  a  dreary  one  at  best,  and  dim 
Was  settling  to  its  close,  yet  shot  one  grim 
Bed  leer  to  see  the  plain  catch  its  estray. 

IX. 

For  mark!  no  sooner  was  I  fairly  found 
Pledged  to  the  plain,  after  a  pace  or  two, 


"CHILDE  ROLAND  TO  THE  DARK  TOWER  CAME." 

Than,  pausing  to  throw  backward  a  last  view 
O'er  the  safe  road,  't  was  gone;  gray  plain  all  round; 
Nothing  but  plain  to  the  horizon's  bound. 

I  might  go  on;  nought  else  remained  to  do. 

x. 

So,  on  I  went.     I  think  I  never  saw 

Such  starved  ignoble  nature;  nothing  throve: 
For  flowers — as  well  expect  a  cedar  grove ! 
But  cockle,  spurge,  according  to  their  law 
Might  propagate  their  kind,  with  none  to  awe, 
You  'd  think;  a  burr  had  been  a  treasure  trove. 

XI. 

No!  penury,  inertness  and  grimace, 
In  some  strange  sort,  were  the  land's  portion.     "See 
Or  shut  your  eyes,"  said  Nature  peevishly, 
"It  nothing  skills:  I  cannot  help  my  case: 
'T  is  the  Last  Judgment's  fire  must  cure  this  place, 
Calcine  its  clods  and  set  my  prisoners  free." 

XII. 

If  there  pushed  any  ragged  thistle-stalk 
Above  its  mates,  the  head  was  chopped;  the  bents 
Were  jealous  else.     What  made  those  holes  and  rents 
In  the  dock's  harsh  swarth  leaves,  bruised  as  to  baulk 
All  hope  of  greenness?  't  is  a  brute  must  walk 
Pashing  their  life  out,  with  a  brute's  intents. 

XIII. 

As  for  the  grass,  it  grew  as  scant  as  hair 

In  leprosy;  thin  dry  blades  pricked  the  mud 
Which  underneath  looked  kneaded  up  with  blood. 

One  stiff  blind  horse,  his  every  bone  a-stare, 

Stood  stupefied,  however  he  came  there: 
Thrust  out  past  service  from  the  devil's  stud! 


222  "  CHILD  B  ROLAND  TO  THE  DAHK  TOWER  CAME* 

XIV. 

Alive?  he  might  be  dead  for  aught  I  know, 

With  that  red  gaunt  and  colloped  neck  a-strain, 
And  shut  eyes  underneath  the  rusty  mane; 

Seldom  went  such  grotesqueness  with  such  woe; 

I  never  saw  a  brute  I  hated  so; 

He  must  be  wicked  to  deserve  such  pain. 

xv. 

I  shut  my  eyes  and  turned  them  on  my  heart. 
As  a  man  calls  for  wine  before  he  fights, 
I  asked  one  draught  of  earlier,  happier  sights, 

Ere  fitly  I  could  hope  to  play  my  part. 

Think  first,  fight  afterward — the  soldier's  art: 
One  taste  of  the  old  time  sets  all  to  rights. 

XVI. 

Not  it!    I  fancied  Cuthbert's  reddening  face 

Beneath  its  garniture  of  curly  gold, 

Dear  fellow,  till  I  almost  felt  him  fold 
An  arm  in  mine  to  fix  me  to  the  place, 
That  way  he  used.     Alas,  one  night's  disgrace! 

Out  went  my  heart's  new  fire  and  left  it  cold. 

XVII. 

Giles  then,  the  soul  of  honor — there  he  stands 
Frank  as  ten  years  ago  when  knighted  first. 
What  honest  man  should  dare  (he  said)  he  durst. 
Good — but  the  scene  shifts — faugh !  what  hangman  hands 
Pin  to  his  breast  a  parchment?     His  own  bands 
Read  it.     Poor  traitor,  spit  upon  and  curst! 

XVIII. 

Better  this  present  than  a  past  like  that; 
Back  therefore  to  my  darkening  path  again ! 


"  CHILD  E  ROLAND  TO  THE  DARK  TOWER  CAME."    223 

No  sound,  no  sight  as  far  as  eye  could  strain. 
Will  the  night  send  a  h  owlet  or  a  bat? 
I  asked :  when  something  on  the  dismal  flat 

Came  to  arrest  my  thoughts  and  change  their  train. 

XIX. 

A  sudden  little  river  crossed  my  path 

As  unexpected  as  a  serpent  comes. 

No  sluggish  tide  congenial  to  the  glooms; 
This,  as  it  frothed  by,  might  have  been  a  bath 
For  the  fiend's  glowing  hoof — to  see  the  wrath 

Of  its  black  eddy  bespate  with  flakes  and  spumes. 

xx. 

So  petty  yet  so  spiteful !    All  along, 

Low  scrubby  alders  kneeled  down  over  it; 
Drenched  willows  flung  them  headlong  in  a  fit 
Of  mute  despair,  a  suicidal  throng: 
The  river  which  had  done  them  all  the  wrong, 
Whate'er  that  was,  rolled  by,  deterred  no  whit. 

XXI. 

Which,  while  I  forded, — good  saints,  how  I  feared 
To  set  my  foot  upon  a  dead  man's  cheek, 
Each  step,  or  feel  the  spear  I  thrust  to  seek 

For  hollows,  tangled  in  his  hair  or  beard! 

— It  may  have  been  a  water-rat  I  speared, 
But,  ugh!  it  sounded  like  a  baby's  shriek. 

xxn. 

Glad  was  I  when  I  reached  the  other  bank. 

Now  for  a  better  country.     Vain  presage! 

Who  were  the  strugglers,  what  war  did  they  wage 
Whose  savage  trample  thus  could  pad  the  dank 
Soil  to  a  plash?    Toads  in  a  poisoned  tank, 

Or  wild  cats  in  a  red-hot  iron  cage — 


"  CEILDE  ROLAND  TO  THE  DARK  TOWER  CAME." 


XXIII. 

The  fight  must  so  have  seemed  in  that  fell  cirque. 

What  penned  them  there,  with  all  the  plain  to  choose? 

No  foot-print  leading  to  that  horrid  mews, 
None  out  of  it.     Mad  brewage  set  to  work 
Their  brains,  no  doubt,  like  galley-slaves  the  Turk 

Pits  for  his  pastime,  Christians  against  Jews. 

XXIV. 

And  more  than  that  —  a  furlong  on  —  why,  there! 
What  bad  use  was  that  engine  for,  that  wheel, 
Or  brake,  not  wheel  —  that  harrow  fit  to  reel 

Men's  bodies  out  like  silk?  with  all  the  air 

Of  Tophet's  tool,  on  earth  left  unaware, 
Or  brought  to  sharpen  its  rusty  teeth  of  steel. 

XXV. 

Then  came  a  bit  of  stubbed  ground,  once  a  wood, 
Next  a  marsh,  it  would  seem,  and  now  mere  earth 
Desperate  and  done  with;  (so  a  fool  finds  mirth, 

Makes  a  thing  and  then  mars  it,  till  his  mood 

Changes  and  off  he  goes  !)  within  a  rood  — 
Bog,  clay,  and  rubble,  sand  and  stark  black  dearth. 

XXVI. 

Now  blotches  rankling,  colored  gay  and  grim, 
Now  patches  where  some  leanness  of  the  soil  's 
Broke  into  moss  or  substances  like  boils; 

Then  came  some  palsied  oak,  a  cleft  in  him 

Like  a  distorted  mouth  that  splits  its  rim 
Gaping  at  death,  and  dies  while  it  recoils. 

XXVII. 

And  just  as  far  as  ever  from  the  end  : 

Nought  in  the  distance  but  the  evening,  nought 


"  CHILDE  ROLAND  TO  THE  DARK  TOWER  CAME."    225 

To  point  my  footstep  further!     At  the  thought, 
A  great  black  bird,  Apollyon's  bosom-friend, 
Sailed  past,  nor  beat  his  wide  wing  dragon-penned 

That  brushed  my  cap — perchance  the  guide  I  sought. 

XXVIII. 

For,  looking  up,  aware  I  somehow  grew, 

'Spite  of  the  dusk,  the  plain  had  given  place 

All  round  to  mountains — with  such  name  to  grace 

Mere  ugly  heights  and  heaps  now  stolen  in  view. 

How  thus  they  had  surprised  me, — solve  it,  you ! 
How  to  get  from  them  was  no  clearer  case. 

XXIX. 

Yet  half  I  seemed  to  recognize  some  trick 

Of  mischief  happened  to  me,  God  knows  when — 
In  a  bad  dream  perhaps.     Here  ended,  then, 

Progress  this  way.     When,  in  the  very  nick 

Of  giving  up,  one  time  more,  came  a  click 
As  when  a  trap  shuts — you  're  inside  the  den. 

XXX. 

Burningly  it  came  on  me  all  at  once, 
This  was  the  place!  those  two  hills  on  the  right, 
Crouched  like  two  bulls  locked  horn  in  horn  in  fight; 

While  to  the  left,  a  tall  scalped  mountain    .     .     .     Dunce, 

Dotard,  a-dozing  at  the  very  nonce, 

After  a  life  spent  training  for  the  sight! 

XXXI. 

What  in  the  midst  lay  but  the  Tower  itself? 

The  round  squat  turret,  blind  as  the  fool's  heart, 
Built  of  brown  stone,  without  a  counterpart 
In  the  whole  world.     The  tempest's  mocking  elf 
Points  to  the  shipman  thus  the  unseen  shelf 
He  strikes  on,  only  when  the  timbers  start. 


226  A  GRAMMARIAN'S  FUNERAL. 

XXXII. 

Not  see?  because  of  night  perhaps? — why,  day 
Came  back  again  for  that !  before  it  left, 
The  dying  sunset  kindled  through  a  cleft: 
The  hills,  like  giants  at  a  hunting,  lay, 
Chin  upon  hand,  to  see  the  game  at  bay, — 

"Now  stab  and  end  the  creature — to  the  heft!" 

XXXIII. 

Not  hear?  when  noise  was  everywhere!  it  tolled 
Increasing  like  a  bell.     Names  in  my  ears 
Of  all  the  lost  adventurers  my  peers, — 

How  such  a  one  was  strong,  and  such  was  bold, 

And  such  was  fortunate,  yet  each  of  old 

Lost,  lost!  one  moment  knelled  the  woe  of  years. 

XXXIV. 

There  they  stood,  ranged  along  the  hill-sides,  met 
To  view  the  last  of  me,  a  living  frame 
For  one  more  picture !  in  a  sheet  of  flame 

I  saw  them  and  I  knew  them  all.     And  yet 

Dauntless  the  slug-horn  to  my  lips  I  set, 
And  blew  "Childe  Roland  to  the  Dark  Tower  came!" 


A  GRAMMARIAN'S  FUNERAL. 

SHORTLY   AFTER  THE  REVIVAL  OF  LEARNING  IN   EUROPE. 

LI:T  us  begin  and  carry  up  this  corpse, 

Singing  together. 
Leave  we  the  common  crofts,  the  vulgar  thorpes, 

Each  in  its  tether 


A  GRAMMARIAN'S  FUNERAL.  227 

Sleeping  safe  in  the  bosom  of  the  plain, 

Cared-for  till  cock-crow: 
Look  out  if  yonder  be  not  day  again 

Rimming  the  rock-row! 
That  's  the  appropriate  country;  there,  man's  thought, 

Rarer,  intenser, 
Self-gathered  for  an  outbreak,  as  it  ought, 

Chafes  in  the  censer. 
Leave  we  the  unlettered  plain  it?  herd  and  crop; 

Seek  we  sepulture 
On  a  tall  mountain,  citied  to  the  top, 

Crowded  with  culture! 
All  the  peaks  soar,  but  one  the  rest  excels; 

Clouds  overcome.it; 
No,  yonder  sparkle  is  the  citadel's 

Circling  its  summit. 
Thither  our  path  lies;  wind  we  up  the  heights! 

Wait  ye  the  warning? 
Our  low  life  was  the  level's  and  the  night's: 

He  's  for  the  morning. 
Step  to  a  tune,  square  chests,  erect  each  head, 

'Ware  the  beholders! 
This  is  our  master,  famous,  calm  and  dead, 

Borne  on  our  shoulders. 
Sleep,  crop  and  herd !  sleep,  darkling  thorpe  and  croft 

Safe  from  the  weather! 
He,  whom  we  convoy  to  his  grave  aloft, 

Singing  together, 
He  was  a  man  born  with  thy  face  and  throat, 

Lyric  Apollo! 
Long  he  lived  nameless:  how  should  spring  take  note 

Winter  would  follow? 
Till  lo,  the  little  touch,  and  youth  was  gone! 

Cramped  and  diminished, 
Moaned  he,  "New  measures,  other  feet  anon! 

My  dance  is  finished?" 


228  A  GRAMMARIAN'S  FUNERAL. 

No,  that 's  the  world's  way;  (keep  the  mountain-side, 

Make  for  the  city!) 
He  knew  the  signal,  and  stepped  on  with  pride 

Over  men's  pity; 
Left  play  for  work,  and  grappled  with  the  world 

Bent  on  escaping : 
"What  's  in  the  scroll,"  quoth  he,  "thou  keepest  furled? 

Show  me  their  shaping, 
Theirs  who  most  studied  man,  the  bard  and  sage, — 

Give!" — So,  he  gowned  him, 
Straight  got  by  heart  that  book  to  its  last  page 

Learned,  we  found  him. 

Yea,  but  we  found  him  bald  too,  eyes  like  lead, 

Accents  uncertain: 
"Time  to  taste  life,"  another  would  have  said, 

"Up  with  the  curtain!" 
This  man  said  rather,  "Actual  life  comes  next? 

Patience  a  moment! 
Grant  I  have  mastered  learning's  crabbed  text, 

Still  there  's  the  comment. 
Let  me  know  all !     Prate  not  of  most  or  least, 

Painful  or  easy ! 
Even  to  the  crumbs  I  'd  fain  eat  up  the  feast, 

Ay,  nor  feel  queasy." 
Oh,  such  a  life  as  he  resolved  to  live, 

When  he  had  learned  it, 
When  he  had  gathered  all  books  had  to  give! 

Sooner,  he  spurned  it. 
Image  the  whole,  then  execute  the  parts — 

Fancy  the  fabric 
Quite,  ere  you  build,  ere  steel  strike  fire  from  quartz, 

Ere  mortar  dab  brick! 


A  GRAMMARIAN'S  FUNERAL.  229 

(Here  's  the  town  gate  reached;  there  's  the  market-place 

Gaping  before  us.) 
Yea,  this  in  him  was  the  peculiar  grace 

(Hearten  our  chorus !) 
That  before  living  he  'd  learn  how  to  live — 

No  end  to  learning : 
Earn  the  means  first — God  surely  will  contrive 

Use  for  our  earning. 
Others  mistrust  and  say,  "But  time  escapes! 

Live  now  or  never!" 
He  said,  "What  's  time?    Leave  Now  for  dogs  and  apes! 

Man  has  Forever." 

Back  to  his  book  then:  deeper  drooped  his  head: 

Calculus  racked  him : 
Leaden  before,  his  eyes  grew  dross  of  lead: 

Tussis  attacked  him. 
"Now,  master,  take  a  little  rest!" — not  he! 

(Caution  redoubled ! 
Step  two  a-breast,  the  way  winds  narrowly!) 

Not  a  whit  troubled, 
Back  to  his  studies,  fresher  than  at  first, 

Fierce  as  a  dragon 
He  (soul-hydroptic  with  a  sacred  thirst) 

Sucked  at  the  flagon. 
Oh,  if  we  draw  a  circle  premature, 

Heedless  of  far  gain, 
Greedy  for  quick  returns  of  profit,  sure 

Bad  is  our  bargain ! 
Was  it  not  great?  did  not  he  throw  on  God 

(He  loves  the  burthen) — 
God's  task  to  make  the  heavenly  period 

Perfect  the  earthen? 
Did  not  he  magnify  the  mind,  show  clear 

Just  what  it  all  meant? 


230  A  GRAMMARIAN'S  FUNERAL. 

He  would  not  discount  life,  as  fools  do  here, 

Paid  by  instalment. 
He  ventured  neck  or  nothing — heaven's  success 

Found,  or  earth's  failure: 
"Wilt  thou  trust  death  or  not?"     He  answered  "Yes! 

Hence  with  life's  pale  lure!" 
That  low  man  seeks  a  little  thing  to  do, 

Sees  it  and  does  it : 
This  high  man,  with  a  great  thing  to  pursue, 

Dies  ere  he  knows  it. 
That  low  man  goes  on  adding  one  to  one, 

His  hundred  's  soon  hit: 
This  high  man,  aiming  at  a  million, 

Misses  an  unit. 
That,  has  the  world  here — should  he  need  the  next, 

Let  the  world  mind  him ! 
This,  throws  himself  on  God,  and  unperplexed 

Seeking  shall  find  him. 
So,  with  the  throttling  hands  of  death  at  strife, 

Ground  he  at  grammar; 
Still,  thro'  the  rattle,  parts  of  speech  were  rife: 

While  he  could  stammer 
He  settled  Hoti's  business — let  it  be! — 

Properly  based  Oun — 
Gave  us  the  doctrine  of  the  enclitic  De, 

Dead  from  the  waist  down. 
Well,  here  's  the  platform,  here  's  the  proper  place: 

Hail  to  your  purlieus, 
All  ye  highfliers  of  the  feathered  race, 

Swallows  and  curlews! 
Here  's  the  top-peak;  the  multitude  below 

Live,  for  they  can,  there : 
This  man  decided  not  to  Live  but  Know — 

Bury  this  man  there? 
Here — here  's  his  place,  where  meteors  shoot,  clouds  form, 

Lightnings  are  loosened, 


CLEON.  231 

Stars  come  and  go!     Let  joy  break  with  the  storm, 

Peace  let  the  dew  send ! 
Lofty  designs  must  close  in  like  effects: 

Loftily  lying, 
Leave  him — still  loftier  than  the  world  suspects, 

Living  and  dying. 


CLEON. 

"As  certain  also  of  your  own  poets  have  said" — 

CLEON  the  poet,  (from  the  sprinkled  isles, 

Lily  on  lily,  that  o'erlace  the  sea, 

And    laugh    their    pride    when    the    light    wave    lisps 

"Greece")— 
To  Protus  in  his  Tyranny:  much  health! 

They  give  thy  letter  to  me,  even  now: 
I  read  and  seem  as  if  I  heard  thee  speak. 
The  master  of  thy  galley  still  unlades 
Gift  after  gift;  they  block  my  court  at  last 
And  pile  themselves  along  its  portico 
Eoyal  with  sunset,  like  a  thought  of  thee; 
And  one  white  she-slave,  from  the  group  dispersed 
Of  black  and  white  slaves,  (like  the  chequer-work 
Pavement,  at  once  my  nation's  work  and  gift 
Now  covered  with  this  settle-down  of  doves) 
One  lyric  woman,  in  her  crocus  vest 
Woven  of  sea-wools,  with  her  two  white  hands 
Commends  to  me  the  strainer  and  the  cup 
Thy  lip  hath  bettered  ere  it  blesses  mine. 

Well-counselled,  king,  in  thy  munificence! 
For  so  shall  men  remark,  in  such  an  act 
Of  love  for  him  whose  song  gives  life  its  joy, 
Thy  recognition  of  the  use  of  life : 


CLEON. 

Nor  call  thy  spirit  barely  adequate 
To  help  on  life  in  straight  ways,  broad  enough 
For  vulgar  souls,  by  ruling  and  the  rest. 
Thou,  in  the  daily  building  of  thy  tower, — • 
Whether  in  fierce  and  sudden  spasms  of  toil, 
Or  through  dim  lulls  of  unapparent  growth, 
Or  when  the  general  work,  'mid  good  acclaim, 
Climbed  with  the  eye  to  cheer  the  architect, — 
Didst  ne'er  engage  in  work  for  mere  work's  sake: 
Hadst  ever  in  thy  heart  the  luring  hope 
Of  some  eventual  rest  a-top  of  it, 
Whence,  all  the  tumult  of  the  building  hushed, 
Thou  first  of  men  mightst  look  out  to  the  East: 
The  vulgar  saw  thy  tower,  thou  sawest  the  sun. 
For  this,  I  promise  on  thy  festival 
To  pour  libation,  looking  o'er  the  sea, 
Making  this  slave  narrate  thy  fortunes,  speak 
Thy  great  words,  and  describe  thy  royal  face — 
Wishing  thee  wholly  where  Zeus  lives  the  most, 
Within  the  eventual  element  of  calm. 

Thy  letter's  first  requirement  meets  me  here. 
It  is  as  thou  hast  heard :  in  one  short  life 
I,  Cleon,  have  effected  all  those  things 
Thou  wonderingly  dost  enumerate. 
That  epos  on  thy  hundred  plates  of  gold 
Is  mine,  and  also  mine  the  little  chant 
So  sure  to  rise  from  every  fishing-bark 
When,  lights  at  prow,  the  seamen  haul  their  net. 
The  image  of  the  sun-god  on  the  phare, 
Men  turn  from  the  sun's  self  to  see,  is  mine; 
The  Pcecile,  o'er-storied  its  whole  length, 
As  thou  didst  hear,  with  painting,  is  mine  too. 
I  know  the  true  proportions  of  a  man 
And  woman  also,  not  observed  before; 
And  I  have  written  three  books  on  the  soul, 
Proving  absurd  all  written  hitherto, 


CLEON.  333 

And  putting  us  to  ignorance  again. 

For  music, — why,  I  have  combined  the  moods, 

Inventing  one.     In  brief,  all  arts  are  mine; 

Thus  much  the  people  know  and  recognize, 

Throughout  our  seventeen  islands.     Marvel  not! 

We  of  these  latter  days,  with  greater  mind 

Than  our  forerunners,  since  more  composite, 

Look  not  so  great,  beside  their  simple  way, 

To  a  judge  who  only  sees  one  way  at  once, 

One  mind-point  and  no  other  at  a  time, — 

Compares  the  small  part  of  a  man  of  us 

With  some  whole  man  of  the  heroic  age, 

Great  in  his  way — not  ours,  nor  meant  for  ours. 

And  ours  is  greater,  had  we  skill  to  know: 

For,  what  we  call  this  life  of  men  on  earth, 

This  sequence  of  the  soul's  achievements  here, 

Being,  as  I  find  much  reason  to  conceive, 

Intended  to  be  viewed  eventually 

As  a  great  whole,  not  analyzed  to  parts, 

But  each  part  having  reference  to  all, — 

How  shall  a  certain  part,  pronounced  complete, 

Endure  effacement  by  another  part? 

Was  the  thing  done? — then,  what  's  to  do  again? 

See,  in  the  chequered  pavement  opposite, 

Suppose  the  artist  made  a  perfect  rhomb, 

And  next  a  lozenge,  then  a  trapezoid — 

He  did  not  overlay  them,  superimpose 

The  new  upon  the  old  and  blot  it  out, 

But  laid  them  on  a  level  in  his  work, 

Making  at  last  a  picture;  there  it  lies. 

So  first  the  perfect  separate  forms  were  made, 

The  portions  of  mankind;  and  after,  so, 

Occurred  the  combination  of  the  same. 

For  where  had  been  a  progress,  otherwise? 

Mankind,  made  up  of  all  the  single  men, — 


234  GLEON. 

In  such  a  synthesis  the  labor  ends. 

Now  mark  me!  those  divine  men  of  old  time 

Have  reached,  thou  sayest  well,  each  at  one  point 

The  outside  verge  that  rounds  our  faculty; 

And  where  they  reached,  who  can  do  more  than  reach? 

It  takes  but  little  water  just  to  touch 

At  some  one  point  the  inside  of  a  sphere, 

And,  as  we  turn  the  sphere,  touch  all  the  rest 

In  due  succession:  but  the  finer  air 

Which  not  so  palpably  nor  obviously, 

Though  no  less  universally,  can  touch 

The  whole  circumference  of  that  emptied  sphere, 

Fills  it  more  fully  than  the  water  did; 

Holds  thrice  the  weight  of  water  in  itself 

Eesolved  into  a  subtler  element. 

And  yet  the  vulgar  call  the  sphere  first  full 

Up  to  the  visible  height — and  after,  void ; 

Not  knowing  air's  more  hidden  properties. 

And  thus  our  soul,  misknown,  cries  out  to  Zeus 

To  vindicate  his  purpose  in  our  life: 

Why  stay  we  on  the  earth  unless  to  grow? 

Long  since,  I  imaged,  wrote  the  fiction  out, 

That  he  or  other  god  descended  here 

And,  once  for  all,  showed  simultaneously 

What,  in  its  nature,  never  can  be  shown 

Piecemeal  or  in  succession;  showed,  I  say, 

The  worth  both  absolute  and  relative 

Of  all  his  children  from  the  birth  of  time, 

His  instruments  for  all  appointed  work. 

I  now  go  on  to  image, — might  we  hear 

The  judgment  which  should  give  the  due  to  each, 

Show  where  the  labor  lay  and  where  the  ease, 

And  prove  Zeus'  self,  the  latent  everywhere! 

This  is  a  dream: — but  no  dream,  let  us  hope, 

That  years  and  days,  the  summers  and  the  springs, 


GLEON.  235 

Follow  each  other  with  unwaning  powers. 

The  grapes  which  dye  thy  wine,  are  richer  far 

Through  culture,  than  the  wild  wealth  of  the  rock; 

The  suave  plum  than  the  savage-tasted  drupe; 

The  pastured  honey-bee  drops  choicer  sweet; 

The  flowers  turn  double,  and  the  leaves  turn  flowe 

That  young  and  tender  crescent  moon,  thy  slave, 

Sleeping  upon  her  robe  as  if  on  clouds, 

Eefines  upon  the  women  of  my  youth. 

What,  and  the  soul  alone  deteriorates? 

I  have  not  chanted  verse  like  Homer,  no — 

Nor  swept  string  like  Terpander,  no — nor  carved 

And  painted  men  like  Phidias  and  his  friend: 

I  am  not  great  as  they  are,  point  by  point. 

But  I  have  entered  into  sympathy 

With  these  four,  running  these  into  one  soul, 

Who,  separate,  ignored  each  other's  arts. 

Say,  is  it  nothing  that  I  know  them  all? 

The  wild  flower  was  the  larger;  I  have  dashed 

Eose-blood  upon  its  petals,  pricked  its  cup's 

Honey  with  wine,  and  driven  its  seed  to  fruit, 

And  show  a  better  flower  if  not  so  large: 

I  stand  msyelf.     Refer  this  to  the  gods 

Whose  gift  alone  it  is!  which,  shall  I  dare 

(All  pride  apart)  upon  the  absurd  pretext 

That  such  a  gift  by  chance  lay  in  my  hand, 

Discourse  of  lightly  or  depreciate? 

It  might  have  fallen  to  another's  hand:  what  then? 

I  pass  too  surely :  let  at  least  truth  stay ! 

And  next,  of  what  thou  followest  on  to  ask. 
This  being  with  me,  as  I  declare,  0  king, 
My  works  in  all  these  varicolored  kinds, 
So  done  by  me,  accepted  so  by  men — 
Thou  askest,  if  (my  soul  thus  in  men's  hearts) 


236  CLEON. 

I  must  not  be  accounted  to  attain 
The  very  crown  and  proper  end  of  life? 
Inquiring  thence,  how,  now  life  closeth  up, 
I  face  death  with  success  in  my  right  hand: 
Whether  I  fear  death  less  than  doth  thyself 
The  fortunate  of  men?     "For"  (writest  thou) 
"Thou  leavest  much  behind,  while  I  leave  nought. 
Thy  life  stays  in  the  poems  men  shall  sing, 
The  pictures  men  shall  study;  while  my  life, 
Complete  and  whole  now  in  its  power  and  joy, 
Dies  altogether  with  my  brain  and  arm, 
Is  lost  indeed;  since,  what  survives  myself? 
The  brazen  statue  to  o'erlook  my  grave, 
Set  on  the  promontory  which  I  named. 
And  that — some  supple  courtier  of  my  heir 
Shall  use  its  robed  and  sceptred  arm,  perhaps 
To  fix  the  rope  to,  which  best  drags  it  down. 
I  go  then:  triumph  thou,  who  dost  not  go!" 

Nay,  thou  art  worthy  of  hearing  my  whole  mind. 
Is  this  apparent,  when  thou  turn'st  to  muse 
Upon  the  scheme  of  earth  and  man  in  chief, 
That  admiration  grows  as  knowledge  grows? 
That  imperfection  means  perfection  hid, 
Reserved  in  part,  to  grace  the  after-time? 
If,  in  the  morning  of  philosophy, 
Ere  aught  had  been  recorded,  nay  perceived, 
Thou,  with  the  light  now  in  thee,  couldsthave  looked 
On  all  earth's  tenantry,  from  worm  to  bird, 
Ere  man,  her  last,  appeared  upon  the  stage — 
Thou  wouldst  have  seen  them  perfect,  and  deduced 
The  perfectness  of  others  yet  unseen. 
Conceding  which, — had  Zeus  then  questioned  thee 
"Shall  I  go  on  a  step,  improve  on  this, 
Po  more  for  visible  creatures  than  is  done?" 


CLEON.  23? 

Thou  wouldst  have  answered,  "Ay,  by  making  each 

Grow  conscious  in  himself — by  that  alone. 

All  's  perfect  else:  the  shell  sucks  fast  the  rock, 

The  fish  strikes  through  the  sea,  the  snake  both  swims 

And  slides,  forth  range  the  beasts,  the  birds  take  flight. 

Till  life's  mechanics  can  no  further  go — 

And  all  this  joy  in  natural  life,  is  put, 

Like  tire  from  off  thy  finger,  into  each, 

So  exquisitely  perfect  is  the  same. 

But  't  is  pure  fire,  and  they  mere  matter  are: 

It  has  them,  not  they  it;  and  so  I  choose 

For  man,  thy  last  premeditated  work 

(If  I  might  add  a  glory  to  the  scheme), 

That  a  third  thing  should  stand  apart  from  both, 

A  quality  arise  within  his  soul, 

Which  intro-active,  made  to  supervise 

And  feel  the  force  it  has,  may  view  itself, 

And  so  be  happy."     Man  might  live  at  first 

The  animal  life:  but  is  there  nothing  more? 

In  due  time,  let  him  critically  learn 

How  he  lives;  and,  the  more  he  gets  to  know 

Of  his  own  life's  adaptabilities, 

The  more  joy-giving  will  his  life  become. 

Thus  man,  who  hath  this  quality,  is  best. 

But  thou,  king,  hadst  more  reasonably  said: 
"Let  progress  end  at  once, — man  make  no  step 
Beyond  the  natural  man,  the  better  beast, 
Using  his  senses,  not  the  sense  of  sense!" 
In  man  there  's  failure,  only  since  he  left 
The  lower  and  inconscious  forms  of  life. 
"We  called  it  an  advance,  the  rendering  plain 
Man's  spirit  might  grow  conscious  of  man's  life, 
And,  by  new  lore  so  added  to  the  old, 
Take  each  step  higher  over  the  brute's"  head. 


238  CLEON. 

This  grew  the  only  life,  the  pleasure-house, 
Watch-tower  and  treasure-fortress  of  the  soul, 
Which  whole  surrounding  flats  of  natural  life 
Seemed  only  fit  to  yield  subsistence  to; 
A  tower  that  crowns  a  country.     But  alas, 
The  soul  now  climbs  it  just  to  perish  there ! 
For  thence  we  have  discovered  ('t  is  no  dream — 
We  know  this,  which  we  had  not  else  perceived) 
That  there  's  a  world  of  capability 
For  joy,  spread  round  about  us,  meant  for  us, 
Inviting  us;  and  still  the  soul  craves  all, 
And  still  the  flesh  replies,  "Take  no  jot  more 
Than  ere  thou  clombst  the  tower  to  look  abroad! 
Nay,  so  much  less  as  that  fatigue  has  brought 
Deduction  to  it."     We  struggle,  fain  to  enlarge 
Our  bounded  physical  recipiency, 
Increase  our  power,  supply  fresh  oil  to  life, 
Repair  the  waste  of  age  and  sickness:  no, 
It  skills  not!  life  's  inadequate  to  joy, 
As  the  soul  sees  joy,  tempting  life  to  take. 
They  praise  a  fountain  in  my  garden  here 
Wherein  a  Naiad  sends  the  water-bow 
Thin  from  her  tube;  she  smiles  to  see  it  rise. 
What  if  I  told  her,  it  is  just  a  thread 
From  that  great  river  which  the  hills  shut  up, 
And  mock  her  with  my  leave  to  take  the  same? 
The  artificer  has  given  her  one  small  tube 
Past  power  to  widen  or  exchange — what  boots 
To  know  she  might  spout  oceans  if  she  could? 
She  cannot  life  beyond  her  first  thin  thread: 
And  so  a  man  can  use  but  a  man's  joy 
While  he  sees  God's.     Is  it  for  Zeus  to  boast, 
"See  man,  how  happy  I  live,  and  despair — 
That  I  may  be  still  happier — for  thy  use!" 
If  this  were  so,  we  could  not  thank  our  lord, 
As  hearts  beat  on  to  doing:  't  is  not  so — 


CLEON.  239 

Malice  it  is  not.     Is  it  carelessness? 

Still,  no.     If  care — where  is  the  sign?  I  ask, 

And  get  no  answer,  and  agree  in  sum, 

0  king,  with  thy  profound  discouragement, 
Who  seest  the  wider  but  to  sigh  the  more. 
Most  progress  is  most  failure:  thou  sayest  well. 

The  last  point  now.     Thou  dost  except  a  case — 
Holding  joy  not  impossible  to  one 
With  artist-gifts — to  such  a  man  as  I 
Who  leave  behind  me  living  works  indeed; 
For,  such  a  poem,  such  a  painting  lives. 
What?  dost  thou  verily  trip  upon  a  word, 
Confound  the  accurate  view  of  what  joy  is 
(Caught  somewhat  clearer  by  my  eyes  than  thine) 
With  feeling  joy?  confound  the  knowing  how 
And  showing  how  to  live  (my  faculty) 
With  actually  living? — Otherwise 
Where  is  the  artist's  vantage  o'er  the  king? 
Because  in  my  great  epos  I  display 
How  divers  men  young,  strong,  fair,  wise,  can  act — 
Is  this  as  though  I  acted?  if  I  paint, 
Carve  the  young  Phoebus,  am  I  therefore  young? 
Methinks  I  'm  older  that  I  bowed  myself 
The  many  years  of  pain  that  taught  me  art! 
Indeed,  to  know  is  something,  and  to  prove 
How  all  this  beauty  might  be  enjoyed,  is  more: 
But,  knowing  nought,  to  enjoy  is  something  too. 
Yon  rower,  with  the  moulded  muscles  there, 
Lowering  the  sail,  is  nearer  it  than  I. 

1  can  write  love-odes:  thy  fair  slave  's  an  ode. 
I  get  to  sing  of  love,  when  grown  too  gray 

For  being  beloved:  she  turns  to  that  young  man, 

The  muscles  all  a-ripple  on  his  back. 

I  know  the  joy  of  kingship;  well,  thou  art  king! 


240  CLEON. 

"But,"  sayest  thou — (and  I  marvel,  I  repeat, 
To  find  thee  tripping  on  a  mere  word)  "what 
Thou  writest,  paintest,  stays;  that  does  not  die! 
Sappho  survives,  because  we  sing  her  songs, 
And  ^Eschylus,  because  we  read  his  plays!" 
Why,  if  they  live  still,  let  them  come  and  take 
Thy  slave  in  my  despite,  drink  from  thy  cup, 
Speak  in  my  place.     Thou  diest  while  I  survive? 
Say  rather  that  my  fate  is  deadlier  still, 
In  this,  that  every  day  my  sense  of  joy 
Grows  more  acute,  my  soul  (intensified 
By  power  and  insight)  more  enlarged,  more  keen; 
While  every  day  my  hair  falls  more  and  more, 
My  hand  shakes,  and  the  heavy  years  increase — 
The  horror  quickening  still  from  year  to  year, 
The  consummation  coming  past  escape, 
When  I  shall  know  most,  and  yet  least  enjoy — 
When  all  my  works  wherein  I  prove  my  worth, 
Being  present  still  to  mock  me  in  men's  mouths, 
Alive  still,  in  the  phrase  of  such  as  thou, 
I,  I  the  feeling,  thinking,  acting  man, 
The  man  who  loved  his  life  so  over-much, 
Shall  sleep  in  my  urn.     It  is  so  horrible, 
I  dare  at  times  imagine  to  my  need 
Some  future  state  revealed  to  us  by  Zeus, 
Unlimited  in  capability 
For  joy,  as  this  is  in  desire  for  joy, 
— To  seek  which,  the  joy-hunger  forces  us: 
That,  stung  by  straitness  of  our  life,  made  strait 
On  purpose  to  make  prized  the  life  at  large — 
Freed  by  the  throbbing  impulse  we  call  death, 
We  burst  there  as  the  worm  into  the  fly, 
Who,  while  a  worm  still,  wants  his  wings.     But  no! 
Zeus  has  not  yet  revealed  it;  and  alas, 
He  must  have  done  so,  were  it  possible! 


INSTANS  TYRANNUS. 

Live  long  and  happy,  and  in  that  thought  die, 
Glad  for  what  was !     Farewell.     And  for  the  rest, 
I  cannot  tell  thy  messenger  aright 
Where  to  deliver  what  he  bears  of  thine 
To  one  called  Paulus;  we  have  heard  his  fame 
Indeed,  if  Christus  be  not  one  with  him — 
I  know  not,  nor  am  troubled  much  to  know. 
Thou  canst  not  think  a  mere  barbarian  Jew 
As  Paulus  proves  to  be,  one  circumcised, 
Hath  access  to  a  secret  shut  from  us? 
Thou  wrongest  our  philosophy,  0  king, 
In  stooping  to  inquire  of  such  an  one, 
As  if  his  answer  could  impose  at  all! 
He  writeth,  doth  lie?  well,  and  he  may  write. 
Oh,  the  Jew  findeth  scholars!  certain  slaves 
Who  touched  on  this  same  isle,  preached  him  and  Christ; 
And  (as  I  gathered  from  a  bystander) 
Their  doctrine  could  be  held  by  no  sane  man. 


INSTANS    TYRANNUS. 

i. 

OF  the  million  or  two,  more  or  less, 
I  rule  and  possess, 
One  man,  for  some  cause  undefined, 
Was  least  to  my  mind. 

ii. 

I  struck  him,  he  grovelled  of  course — 

For,  what  was  his  force? 

I  pinned  him  to  earth  with  my  weight 

And  persistence  of  hate; 

And  he  lay,  would  not  moan,  would  not  curse, 

As  his  lot  might  be  worse. 


242  nrSTANS  TTRANNUS. 

m. 

"Were  the  object  less  mean,  would  he  stand 

At  the  swing  of  my  hand ! 

For  obscurity  helps  him,  and  blots 

The  hole  where  he  squats." 

So,  I  set  my  five  wits  on  the  stretch 

To  inveigle  the  wretch. 

All  in  vain !     Gold  and  jewels  I  threw, 

Still  he  couched  there  perdue; 

I  tempted  his  blood  and  his  flesh, 

Hid  in  roses  my  mesh, 

Choicest  cates  and  the  flagon's  best  spilth : 

Still  he  kept  to  his  filth. 

IV. 

Had  he  kith  now  or  kin,  were  access 

To  his  heart,  did  I  press: 

Just  a  son  or  a  mother  to  iSeize! 

No  such  booty  as  these. 

Were  it  simply  a  friend  to  pursue 

'Mid  my  million  or  two, 

Who  could  pay  me,  in  person  or  pelf, 

What  he  owes  me  himself! 

No:  I  could  not  but  smile  through  my  chafe: 

For  the  fellow  lay  safe 

As  his  mates  do,  the  midge  and  the  nit, 

— Through  minuteness,  to  wit. 

v. 

Then  a  humor  more  great  took  its  place 

At  the  thought  of  his  face: 

The  droop,  the  low  cares  of  the  mouth, 

The  trouble  uncouth 

'Twixt  the  brows,  all  that  air  one  is  fain 

To  put  out  of  its  pain. 


IN8TAN8  TTRANNU8. 

And,  "no!"  I  admonished  myself, 

"Is  one  mocked  by  an  elf? 

Is  one  baffled  by  toad  or  by  rat? 

The  gravamen  's  in  that! 

How  the  lion,  who  crouches  to  suit 

His  back  to  my  foot, 

Would  admire  that  I  stand  in  debate! 

But  the  small  turns  the  great 

If  it  vexes  you, — that  is  the  thing! 

Toad  or  rat  vex  the  king? 

Though  I  waste  half  my  realm  to  unearth 

Toad  or  rat,  't  is  well  worth!" 

VI. 

So,  I  soberly  laid  my  last  plan 

To  extinguish  the  man. 

Eound  his  creep-hole,  with  never  a  break 

Ean  my  fires  for  his  sake; 

Over-head,  did  my  thunder  combine 

With  my  under-ground  mino: 

Till  I  looked  from  my  labor  content 

To  enjoy  the  event. 

VII. 

When  sudden    .     .     .     how  think  ye,  the  end? 

Did  I  say  "without  friend?" 

Say  rather,  from  marge  to  blue  marge 

The  whole  sky  grew  his  targe 

With  the  sun's  self  for  visible  boss, 

While  an  Arm  ran  across 

Which  the  earth  heaved  beneath  like  a  breast 

Where  the  wretch  was  safe  prest! 

Do  you  see?    Just  my  vengeance  complete, 

The  man  sprang  to  his  feet, 

Stood  erect,  caught  at  God's  skirts,  and  prayed! 

— So,  /was  afraid! 


244  AN  EPISTLE. 


AN  EPISTLE 

CONTAINING   THE   STRANGE   MEDICAL   EXPERIENCE  OF 
KARSHISH,    THE   ARAB   PHYSICIAN. 

KARSHISH,  the  picker-np  of  learning's  crumbs, 

The  not-incurious  in  God's  handiwork 

(This  man's  flesh  he  hath  admirably  made, 

Blown  like  a  bubble,  kneaded  like  a  paste, 

To  coop  up  and  keep  down  on  earth  a  space 

That  puff  of  vapor  from  his  mouth,  man's  soul) 

— To  Abib,  all-sagacious  in  our  art, 

Breeder  in  me  of  what  poor  skill  I  boast, 

Like  me  inquisitive  how  pricks  and  cracks 

Befall  the  flesh  through  too  much  stress  and  strain, 

Whereby  the  wily  vapor  fain  would  slip 

Back  and  rejoin  its  source  before  the  term. — 

And  aptest  in  contrivance  (under  God) 

To  baffle  it  by  deftly  stopping  such: — 

The  vagrant  Scholar  to  his  Sage  at  home 

Sends  greeting  (health  and  knowledge,  fame  with  peace) 

Three  samples  of  true  snake-stone — rarer  still, 

One  of  the  other  sort,  the  melon-shaped, 

(But  fitter,  pounded  fine,  for  charms  than  drugs) 

And  writeth  now  the  twenty-second  time. 

My  journeyings  were  brought  to  Jericho: 
Thus  I  resume.     Who  studious  in  our  art 
Shall  count  a  little  labor  unrepaid? 
I  have  shed  sweat  enough,  left  flesh  and  bone 
On  many  a  flinty  furlong  of  this  land. 
Also,  the  country-side  is  all  on  fire 
With  rumors  of  a  marching  hitherward; 
Some  say  Vespasian  cometh,  some,  his  son. 
A  black  lynx  snarled  and  pricked  a  tufted  ear; 


AN  EPISTLE.  245 

Lust  of  my  blood  inflamed  his  yellow  balls: 

I  cried  and  threw  my  staff  and  he  was  gone. 

Twice  have  the  robbers  stripped  and  beaten  me, 

And  once  a  town  declared  me  for  a  spy ; 

But  at  the  end,  I  reach  Jerusalem, 

Since  this  poor  covert  where  I  pass  the  night, 

This  Bethany,  lies  scarce  the  distance  thence 

A  man  with  plague-sores  at  the  third  degree 

Kuns  till  he  drops  down  dead.     Thou  laughest  here! 

'Sooth,  it  elates  me,  thus  reposed  and  safe, 

To  void  the  stuffing  of  my  travel-scrip 

And  share  with  thee  whatever  Jewry  yields. 

A  viscid  choler  is  observable 

In  tertians,  I  was  nearly  bold  to  say ; 

And  falling-sickness  hath  a  happier  cure 

Than  our  school  wots  of:  there  's  a  spider  here 

AVeaves  no  web,  watches  on  the  ledge  of  tombs, 

Sprinkled  with  mottles  on  an  ash-gray  back; 

Take  five  and  drop  them  .  .  .  but  who  knows  his  mind, 

The  Syrian  run-a-gate  I  trust  this  to? 

His  service  payeth  me  a  sublimate 

Blown  up  his  nose  to  help  the  ailing  eye. 

Best  wait :  I  reach  Jerusalem  at  morn, 

There  set  in  order  my  experiences, 

Gather  what  most  deserves,  and  give  thee  aH — 

Or  I  might  add,  Judaea's  gum-tragacanth 

Scales  off  in  pure  flakes,  shines  clearer-grained, 

Cracks  'twixt  the  pestle  and  the  porphyry, 

In  fine  exceeds  our  produce.     Scalp-disease 

Confounds  me,  crossing  so  with  leprosy: 

Thou  hadst  admired  one  sort  I  gained  at  Zoar — 

But  zeal  outruns  discretion.     Here  I  end. 

Yet  stay !  my  Syrian  blinketh  gratefully, 
Protesteth  his  devotion  is  my  price — 


24G  AN  EPISTLE. 

Suppose  I  write  what  harms  not,  though  he  steal? 

I  half  resolve  to  tell  thee,  yet  I  blnsh, 

"What  set  me  off  a-writing  first  of  all. 

An  itch  I  had,  a  sting  to  write,  a  tang! 

For,  be  it  this  town's  barrenness — or  else 

The  Man  had  something  in  the  look  of  him — 

His  case  has  struck  me  far  more  than  't  is  worth. 

So,  pardon  if — (lest  presently  I  lose, 

In  the  great  press  of  novelty  at  hand, 

The  care  and  pains  this  somehow  stole  from  me) 

I  bid  thee  take  the  thing  while  fresh  in  mind, 

Almost  in  sight — for,  wilt  thou  have  the  truth? 

The  very  man  is  gone  from  me  but  now, 

Whose  ailment  is  the  subject  of  discourse. 

Thus  then,  and  let  thy  better  wit  help  all! 

'Tis  but  a  case  of  mania:  subinduced 
By  epilepsy,  at  the  turning-point 
Of  trance  prolonged  unduly  some  three  days 
When,  by  the  exhibition  of  some  drug 
Or  spell,  exorcization,  stroke  of  art 
Unknown  to  me,  and  which  't  were  well  to  know 
The  evil  thing,  out-breaking,  all  at  once, 
Left  the  man  whole  and  sound  of  body  indeed, — 
But,  flinging  (so  to  speak)  life's  gates  too  wide, 
Making  a  clear  house  of  it  too  suddenly, 
The  first  conceit  that  entered  might  inscribe 
Whatever  it  was  minded  on  the  wall 
So  plainly  at  that  vantage,  as  it  were, 
(First  come,  first  served)  that  nothing  subsequent 
Attaineth  to  erase  those  fancy-scrawls 
The  just-returned  and  new-established  soul 
Hath  gotten  now  so  thoroughly  by  heart 
That  henceforth  she  will  read  or  these  or  none. 
And  first — the  man's  own  firm  conviction  rests 


AN  EPISTLSL  247 

That  he  was  dead  (in  fact  they  buried  him) 
— That  he  was  dead  and  then  restored  to  life 
By  a  Kazarene  physician  of  his  tribe: 
— 'Sayeth,  the  same  bade  "Rise,"  and  he  did  rise. 
"Such  cases  are  diurnal,"  thou  wilt  cry. 
Not  so  this  figment! — not,  that  such  a  fume, 
Instead  of  giving  way  to  time  and  health, 
Should  eat  itself  into  the  life  of  life, 
As  saffron  tingeth  flesh,  blood,  bones,  and  all! 
For  see,  how  he  takes  up  the  after-life. 
The  man — it  is  one  Lazarus  a  Jew, 
Sanguine,  proportioned,  fifty  years  of  age, 
The  body's  habit  wholly  laudable, 
As  much,  indeed,  beyond  the  common  health 
As  he  were  made  and  put  aside  to  show. 
Think,  could  we  penetrate  by  any  drug 
And  bathe  the  wearied  soul  and  worried  flesh, 
And  bring  it  clear  and  fair,  by  three  days'  sleep! 
Whence  has  the  man  the  balm  that  brightens  all? 
This  grown  man  eyes  the  world  now  like  a  child. 
Some  elders  of  his  tribe,  I  should  premise, 
Led  in  their  friend,  obedient  as  a  sheep, 
To  bear  my  inquisition.     While  they  spoke, 
Now  sharply,  now  with  sorrow, — told  the  case 
He  lictened  not  except  I  spoke  to  him, 
But  folded  his  two  hands  and  let  them  talk, 
Watching  the  flies  that  buzzed :  and  yet  no  fool. 
And  that  's  a  sample  how  his  years  must  go. 
Look  if  a  beggar,  in  fixed  middle-life, 
Should  find  a  treasure, — can  he  use  the  same 
With  straitened  habitude  and  tastes  starved  small, 
And  take  at  once  to  his  impoverished  brain 
The  sudden  element  that  changes  things, 
That  sets  the  undreamed-of  rapture  at  his  hand, 
puts  the  cherp  old  joy  ip  th§  §OPrned  dust? 


248  AN  EPISTLE. 

Is  he  not  such  an  one  as  moves  to  mirth — 

Warily  parsimonious,  when  no  need, 

Wasteful  as  drunkenness  at  undue  times? 

All  prudent  counsel  as  to  what  befits 

The  golden  mean,  is  lost  on  such  an  one: 

The  man's  fantastic  will  is  the  man's  law. 

So  here — we  call  the  treasure  knowledge,  say, 

Increased  beyond  the  fleshly  faculty — 

Heaven  opened  to  a  soul  while  yet  on  earth, 

Earth  forced  on  a  soul's  use  while  seeing  heaven: 

The  man  is  witless  of  the  size,  the  sum, 

The  value  in  proportion  of  all  things, 

Or  whether  it  be  little  or  be  much. 

Discourse  to  him  of  prodigious  armaments 

Assembled  to  besiege  his  city  now, 

And  of  the  passing  of  a  mule  with  gourds — 

'T  is  one!     Then  take  it  on  the  other  side, 

Speak  of  some  trifling  fact, — he  will  gaze  rapt 

With  stupor  at  its  very  littleness, 

(Far  as  I  see)  as  if  in  that  indeed 

He  caught  prodigious  import,  whole  results; 

And  so  will  turn  to  us  the  bystanders 

In  ever  the  same  stupor  (note  this  point) 

That  we  too  see  not  with  his  opened  eyes. 

Wonder  and  doubt  come  wrongly  into  play, 

Preposterously,  at  cross  purposes. 

Should  his  child  sicken  unto  death, — why,  look 

For  scarce  abatement  of  his  cheerfulness, 

Or  pretermission  of  the  daily  craft! 

While  a  word,  gesture,  glance  from  that  same  child 

At  play  or  in  the  school  or  laid  asleep, 

Will  startle  him  to  an  agony  of  fear, 

Exasperation,  just  as  like.     Demand 

The  reason  why — "'t  is  but  a  word,"  object — 

('A  gesture" — he  regards  thee  as  our  lord 


AN  EPISTLE.  J{49 

Who  lived  there  in  the  pyramid  alone, 

Looked  at  us  (dost  thou  mind?)  when,  being  young 

We  both  would  unadvisedly  recite 

Some  charm's  beginning,  from  that  book  of  his, 

Able  to  bid  the  sun  throb  wide  and  burst 

All  into  stars,  as  suns  grown  old  are  wont. 

Thou  and  the  child  have  each  a  veil  alike 

Thrown  o'er  your  heads,  from  under  which  ye  both 

Stretch  your  blind  hands  and  trifle  with  a  match 

Over  a  mine  of  Greek  fire,  did  ye  know ! 

He  holds  on  firmly  to  some  thread  of  life — 

(It  is  the  life  to  lead  perforcedly) 

Which  runs  across  some  vast  distracting  orb 

Of  glory  on  either  side  that  meagre  thread, 

Which,  conscious  of,  he  must  not  enter  yet — 

The  spiritual  life  around  the  earthly  life: 

The  law  of  that  is  known  to  him  as  this, 

His  heart  and  brain  move  there,  his  feet  stay  here. 

So  is  the  man  perplext  with  impulses 

Sudden  to  start  off  crosswise,  not  straight  on, 

Proclaiming  what  is  right  and  wrong  across, 

And  not  along,  this  black  thread  through  the  blaze — 

"It  should  be"  baulked  by  "here  it  cannot  be." 

And  oft  the  man's  soul  springs  into  his  face 

As  if  he  saw  again  and  heard  again 

His  sage  that  bade  him  "Rise"  and  he  did  rise. 

Something,  a  word,  a  tick  o'  the  blood  within 

Admonishes:  then  back  he  sinks  at  once 

To  ashes,  who  was  very  fire  before, 

In  sedulous  recurrence  to  his  trade 

Whereby  he  earneth  him  the  daily  bread; 

And  studiously  the  humbler  for  that  pride, 

Professedly  the  faultier  that  he  knows 

God's  secret,  while  he  holds  the  thread  of  life. 

Indeed  the  especial  marking  of  the  man 


250  AN  EPISTLE. 

Is  prone  submission  to  the  heavenly  will — 

Seeing  it,  what  it  is,  and  why  it  is. 

'Sayeth,  he  will  wait  patient  to  the  last 

For  that  same  death  which  must  restore  his  being 

To  equilibrium,  body  loosening  soul 

Divorced  even  now  by  premature  full  growth: 

He  will  live,  nay,  it  pleaseth  him  to  live 

So  long  as  God  please,  and  just  how  God  please. 

He  even  seeketh  not  to  please  God  more 

(Which  meaneth,  otherwise)  than  as  God  please. 

Hence,  I  perceive  not  he  affects  to  preach 

The  doctrine  of  his  sect  whate'er  it  be, 

Make  proselytes  as  madmen  thirst  to  do: 

How  can  he  give  his  neighbor  the  real  ground, 

His  own  conviction?     Ardent  as  he  is — 

Call  his  great  truth  a  lie,  why,  still  the  old 

"Be  it  as  God  please"  reassureth  him. 

I  probed  the  sore  as  thy  disciple  should : 

"How,  beast,"  said  I,  "this  stolid  carelessness 

Sufficeth  thee,  when  Rome  is  on  her  march 

To  stamp  out  like  a  little  spark  thy  town, 

Thy  tribe,  thy  crazy  tale  and  thee  at  once?" 

He  merely  looked  with  his  large  eyes  on  me. 

The  man  is  apathetic,  you  deduce? 

Contrariwise,  he  loves  both  old  and  young, 

Able  and  weak,  affects  the  very  brutes 

And  birds — how  say  I?  flowers  of  the  field — • 

As  a  wise  workman  recognizes  tools 

In  a  master's  workshop,  loving  what  they 

Thus  is  the  man  as  harmless  as  a  lamb. 

Only  impatient,  let  him  do  his  best, 

At  ignorance  and  carelessness  and  sin — 

An  indignation  which  is  promptly  curbed : 

Ag  when  in  certain  travel  I  have  feigned 

T0  kt  m  iguoramug  in,  0ny  art 

*s   ' 


AN  EPISTLE.  251 

According  to  some  preconceived  design, 

And  happened  to  hear  the  land's  practitioners, 

Steeped  in  conceit  sublimed  by  ignorance, 

Prattle  fantastically  on  disease, 

Its  cause  and  cure — and  I  must  hold  my  peace! 

Thou  wilt  object — Why  have  I  not  ere  this 
Sought  out  the  sage  himself,  the  Nazarene 
Who  wrought  this  cure,  inquiring  at  the  source, 
Conferring  with  the  frankness  that  befits? 
Alas !  it  grieveth  me,  the  learned  leech 
Perished  in  a  tumult  many  years  ago, 
Accused, — our  learning's  fate, — of  wizardry, 
Eebellion,  to  the  setting  up  a  rule 
And  creed  prodigious  as  described  to  me. 
His  death,  which  happened  when  the  earthquake  fell, 
(Prefiguring,  as  soon  appeared,  the  loss 
To  occult  learning  in  our  lord  the  sage 
Who  lived  there  in  the  pyramid  alone) 
Was  wrought  by  the  mad  people — that  's  their  wont ! 
On  vain  recourse,  as  I  conjecture  it, 
To  his  tried  virtue,  for  miraculous  help — 
How  could  he  stop  the  earthquake?    That 's  their  way ! 
The  other  imputations  must  be  lies: 
But  take  one,  though  I  loathe  to  give  it  thee, 
In  mere  respect  for  any  good  man's  fame. 
(And  after  all,  our  patient  Lazarus 
Is  stark  mad;  should  we  count  on  what  he  says? 
Perhaps  not :  though  in  writing  to  a  leech 
'T  is  well  to  keep  back  nothing  of  a  case.) 
This  man  so  cured  regards  the  curer,  then, 
As — God  forgive  me!  who  but  God  himself, 
Creator  and  sustainer  of  the  world, 
That  came  and  dwelt  in  flesh  on  it  awhile! 
— 'Sayeth  that  such  an  one  was  born  and  lived, 


252  AN  EPISTLE. 

Taught,jhealed  the  sick,  broke  bread  at  his  own  house. 

Then  died,  with  Lazarus  by,  for  aught  I  know, 

And  yet  was    .     .     .     what  I  said  nor  choose  repeat, 

And  must  have  so  avouched  himself,  in  fact, 

In  hearing  of  this  very  Lazarus 

Who  saith — but  why  all  this  of  what  he  saith? 

"Why  write  of  trivial  matters,  things  of  price 

Calling  at  every  moment  for  remark? 

I  noticed  on  the  margin  of  a  pool 

Blue-flowering  borage,  the  Aleppo  sort, 

Aboundeth,  very  nitrous.     It  is  strange! 

Thy  pardon  for  this  long  and  tedious  case, 
Which,  now  that  I  review  it,  needs  must  seem 
Unduly  dwelt  on,  prolixly  set  forth ! 
Nor  I  myself  discern  in  what  is  writ 
Good  cause  for  the  peculiar  interest 
And  awe  indeed  this  man  has  touched  me  with. 
Perhaps  the  journey's  end,  the  weariness 
Had  wrought  upon  me  first.     I  met  him  thus: 
I  crossed  a  ridge  of  short  sharp  broken  hills 
Like  an  old  lion's  cheek  teeth.     Out  there  came 
A  moon  made  like  a  face  with  certain  spots 
Multiform,  manifold  and  menacing: 
Then  a  wind  rose  behind  me.     So  we  met 
In  this  old  sleepy  town  at  unaware, 
The  man  and  I.     I  send  thee  what  is  writ. 
Eegard  it  as  a  chance,  a  matter  risked 
To  this  ambiguous  Syrian:  he  may  lose, 
Or  steal,  or  give  it  thee  with  equal  good. 
Jerusalem's  repose  shall  make  amends 
For  time  this  letter  wastes,  thy  time  and  mine; 
Till  when,  once  more  thy  pardon  and  farewell ! 

The  very  God!  think,  Abib;  dost  thou  think? 
So,  the  All-Great,  were  the  All-Loving  too — 


CALIBAN  UPON  SETEBOS.  253 

So,  through  the  thunder  comes  a  human  voice 
Saying,  "0  heart  I  made,  a  heart  beats  here! 
Face,  my  hands  fashioned,  see  it  in  myself! 
Thou  hast  no  power  nor  may'st  conceive  of  mine: 
But  love  I  gave  thee,  with  myself  to  love, 
And  thou  must  love  me  who  have  died  for  thee!" 
The  madman  saith  He  said  so:  it  is  strange. 


CALIBAN  UPON  SETEBOS; 

OB,    NATURAL  THEOLOGY  IN  THE   ISLAND. 
"Thou  thoughtest  that  I  was  altogether  such  a  one  as  thyself." 


sprawl,  now  that  the  heat  of  day  is  best, 
Flat  on  his  belly  in  the  pit's  much  mire, 
With  elbows  wide,  fists  clenched  to  prop  his  chin. 
And,  while  he  kicks  both  feet  in  the  cool  slush, 
And  feels  about  his  spine  small  eft-things  course, 
Run  in  and  out  each  arm,  and  make  him  laugh: 
And  while  above  his  head  a  pompion-plant, 
Coating  the  cave-top  as  a  brow  its  eye, 
Creeps  down  to  touch  and  tickle  hair  and  beard, 
And  now  a  flower  drops  with  a  bee  inside, 
And  now  a  fruit  to  snap  at,  catch  and  crunch,  — 
He  looks  out  o'er  yon  sea  which  sunbeams  cross 
And  recross  till  they  weave  a  spider-web, 
(Meshes  of  fire,  some  great  fish  breaks  at  times) 
And  talks  to  his  own  self,  howe'er  he  please, 
Touching  that  other,  whom  his  dam  called  God. 
Because  to  talk  about  Him,  vexes  —  ha, 
Could  He  but  know!  and  time  to  vex  is  now, 
When  talk  is  safer  than  in  Winter-timfc. 


CALIBAN  UPON  SETEBOS. 

Moreover  Prosper  and  Miranda  sleep 
In  confidence  he  drudges  at  their  task, 
And  it  is  good  to  cheat  the  pair,  and  gibe, 
Letting  the  rank  tongue  blossom  into  speech.] 

Setebos,  Setebos,  and  Setebos! 
'Thinketh,  He  dwelleth  i'  the  cold  o'  the  moon. 

'Thinketh  He  made  it,  with  the  sun  to  match, 
But  not  the  stars;  the  stars  came  otherwise; 
Only  made  clouds,  winds,  meteors,  such  as  that: 
Also  this  isle,  what  lives  and  grows  thereon, 
And  snaky  sea  which  rounds  and  ends  the  same. 

'Thinketh,  it  came  of  being  ill  at  ease: 

He  hated  that  He  cannot  change  His  cold, 

Nor  cure  its  ache.     'Hath  spied  an  icy  fish 

That  longed  to 'scape  the  rock-stream  where  she  lived, 

And  thaw  herself  within  the  lukewarm  brine 

0'  the  lazy  sea,  her  stream  thrusts  far  amid, 

A  crystal  spike  'twixt  two  warm  walls  of  wave; 

Only,  she  ever  sickened,  found  repulse 

At  the  other  kind  of  water,  not  her  life, 

(Green-dense  and  dim-delicious,  bred  o'  the  sun) 

Flounced  back  from  bliss  she  was  not  born  to  breathe, 

And  in  her  old  bounds  buried  her  despair, 

Hating  and  loving  warmth  alike :  so  He. 

'Thinketh,  He  made  thereat  the  sun,  this  isle, 
Trees  and  the  fowls  here,  beast  and  creeping  thing. 
Yon  otter,  sleek-wet,  black,  lithe  as  a  leech; 
Yon  auk,  one  fire-eye  in  a  ball  of  foam, 
That  floats  and  feeds;  a  certain  badger  brown, 
He  hath  watched  hunt  with  that  slant  white-wedge  eye 
By  moonlight;  and  the  pie  with  the  long  tongue 
That  pricks  deep  into  oakwarts  for  a  worm, 


CALIBAN  UPON  SETEB08.  255 

And  says  a  plain  word  when  she  finds  her  prize, 

But  will  not  eat  the  ants;  the  ants  themselves 

That  build  a  wall  of  seeds  and  settled  stalks 

About  their  hole — He  made  all  these  and  more, 

Made  all  we  see,  and  us,  in  spite:  who  else? 

He  could  not,  Himself,  make  a  second  self 

To  be  His  mate:  as  well  have  made  Himself; 

He  would  not  make  what  He  dislikes  or  slights, 

An  eyesore  to  Him,  or  not  worth  His  pains; 

But  did,  in  envy,  listlessness  or  sport, 

Make  what  Himself  would  fain,  in  a  manner,  be — • 

Weaker  in  most  points,  stronger  in  a  few, 

Worthy,  and  yet  mere  playthings  all  the  while, 

Things  He  admires  and  mocks  too, — that  is  it. 

Because,  so  brave,  so  better  though  they  be, 

It  nothing  skills  if  He  begin  to  plague. 

Look  now,  I  melt  a  gourd-fruit  into  mash, 

Add  honeycomb  and  pods,  I  have  perceived, 

WThich  bite  like  finches  when  they  bill  and  kiss, — 

Then,  when  froth  rises  bladdery,  drink  up  all, 

Quick,  quick,  till  maggots  scamper  through  my  brain; 

Last,  throw  me  on  my  back  i'  the  seeded  thyme, 

And  wanton,  wishing  I  were  born  a  bird. 

Put  case,  unable  to  be  what  I  wish, 

I  yet  could  make  a  live  bird  out  of  clay: 

Would  not  I  take  clay,  pinch  my  Caliban 

Able  to  fly? — for,  there,  see,  he  hath  wings, 

And  great  comb  like  the  hoopoe's  to  admire, 

And  there,  a  sting  to  do  his  foes  offence, 

There,  and  I  will  that  he  begin  to  live, 

Fly  to  yon  rock-top,  nip  me  off  the  horns 

Of  grigs  high  up  that  make  the  merry  din, 

Saucy  through  their  veined  wings,  and  mind  me  not. 

In  which  feat,  if  his  leg  snapped,  brittle  clay, 

And  he  lay  stupid-like, — why,  I  should  laugh; 


256  CALIBAN  UPON  SETBBOS. 

And  if  he,  spying  me,  should  fall  to  weep, 
Beseech  me  to  be  good,  repair  his  wrong, 
Bid  his  poor  leg  smart  less  or  grow  again, — 
Well,  as  the  chance  were,  this  might  take  or  else 
Not  take  my  fancy:  I  might  hear  his  cry, 
And  give  the  manikin  three  legs  for  one, 
Or  pluck  the  other  off,  leave  him  like  an  egg, 
And  lessoned  he  was  mine  and  merely  clay. 
Were  this  no  pleasure,  lying  in  the  thyme, 
Drinking  the  mash,  with  brain  become  alive, 
Making  and  marring  clay  at  will?     So  He. 

'Thinketh,  such  shows  nor  right  nor  wrong  in  Him 
Nor  kind,  nor  cruel:  He  is  strong  and  Lord. 
'Am  strong  myself  compared  to  yonder  crabs 
That  march  now  from  the  mountain  to  the  sea; 
'Let  twenty  pass,  and  stone  the  twenty-first 
Loving  not,  hating  not,  just  choosing  so. 
'Say,  the  first  straggler  that  boasts  purple  spots 
Shall  join  the  file,  one  pincer  twisted  off; 
'Say,  This  bruised  fellow  shall  receive  a  worm, 
And  two  worms  he  whose  nippers  end  in  red 
As  it  likes  me  each  time,  I  do :  so  He 

Well  then,  'supposeth  He  is  good  i'  the  main, 
Placable  if  His  mind  and  ways  were  guessed, 
But  rougher  than  His  handiwork,  be  sure! 
Oh,  He  hath  made  things  worthier  than  Himself, 
And  envieth  that,  so  helped,  such  things  do  more 
Than  He  who  made  them!     What  consoles  but  this? 
That  they,  unless  through  Him,  do  naught  at  all, 
And  must  submit:  what  other  use  in  things? 
'Hath  cut  a  pipe  of  pithless  elder-joint 
That,  blown  through,  gives  exact  the  scream  o'  the  jay 
When  from  her  wing  you  twitch  the  feathers  blue: 
Sound  this,  and  little  birds  that  hate  the  jay 


CALIBAN  UPON  SETEBOS.  257 

Flock  within  stone's  throw,  glad  their  foe's  hurt: 

Put  case  such  pipe  could  prattle  and  boast  forsooth 

"I  catch  the  birds,  I  am  the  crafty  thing, 

I  make  the  cry  my  maker  cannot  make 

With  his  great  round  mouth;    he   must  blow  through 

mine!" 
Would  not  I  smash  it  with  my  foot?    So  He. 

But  wherefore  rough,  why  cold  and  ill  at  ease? 
Aha,  that  is  a  question!     Ask,  for  that, 
What  knows, — the  something  over  Setebos 
That  made  Him,  or  He,  may  be,  found  and  fought, 
Worsted,  drove  off  and  did  to  nothing,  perchance. 
There  may  be  something  quiet  o'er  His  head, 
Out  of  His  reach,  that  feels  nor  joy  nor  grief, 
Since  both  derive  from  weakness  in  some  way. 
I  joy  because  the  quails  come;  would  not  joy 
Could  I  bring  quails  here  when  I  have  a  mind: 
This  Quiet,  all  it  hath  a  mind  to,  doth. 
'Esteemeth  stars  the  outposts  of  its  couch, 
But  never  spends  much  thought  nor  care  that  way. 
It  may  look  up,  work  up, — the  worse  for  those 
It  works  on!     'Careth  but  for  Setebos 
The  many-handed  as  a  cuttle-fish, 
Who,  making  Himself  feared  through  what  He  does, 
Looks  up,  first,  and  perceives  He  cannot  soar 
To  what  is  quiet  and  hath  happy  life; 
Next  looks  down  here,  and  out  of  very  spite 
Makes  this  a  bauble-world  to  ape  yon  real, 
These  good  things  to  match  those,  as  hips  do  grapes. 
'T  is  solace  making  baubles,  ay,  and  sport. 
Himself  peeped  late,  eyed  Prosper  at  his  books 
Careless  and  lofty,  lord  now  of  the  isle: 
Vexed,  'stitched  a  book  of  broad  leaves,  arrow-shaped. 
Wrote  thereon,  he  knows  what,  prodigious  words; 


258  CALIBAN  UPON  SETEBOS. 

Has  peeled  a  wand  and  called  it  by  a  name; 
Weareth  at  whiles  for  an  enchanter's  robe 
The  eyed  skin  of  a  supple  ocelot; 
And  hath  an  ounce  sleeker  than  youngling  mole, 
A  four-legged  serpent  he  makes  cower  and  couch, 
Now  snarl,  now  hold  its  breath  and  mind  his  eye, 
And  saith  she  is  Miranda  and  my  wife. 
'Keeps  for  his  Ariel  a  tall  pouch-bill  crane 
He  bids  go  wade  for  fish  and  straight  disgorge; 
Also  a  seabeast,  lumpish,  which  he  snared, 
Blinded  the  eyes  of,  and  brought  somewhat  tame, 
And  split  its  toe-webs,  and  now  pens  the  drudge 
In  a  hole  o'  the  rock,  and  calls  him  Caliban; 
A  bitter  heart  that  bides  its  time  and  bites. 
'Plays  thus  at  being  Prosper  in  a  way, 
Taketh  his  mirth  with  make-believes:  so  He. 

His  dam  held  that  the  Quiet  made  all  things 
Which  Setebos  vexed  only:  'holds  not  so. 
Who  made  them  weak,  meant  weakness  He  might  vex. 
Had  He  meant  other,  while  His  hand  was  in, 
Why  not  make  horny  eyes  no  thorn  could  prick, 
Or  plate  my  scalp. with  bone  against  the  snow, 
Or  overscale  my  flesh  'neath  joint  and  joint, 
Like  an  ore's  armor?  Ay, — so  spoil  His  sport! 
He  is  the  One  now :  only  He  doth  all. 

'Saith,  He  may  like,  perchance,  what  profits  Him. 
Ay,  himself  loves  what  does  him  good;  but  why? 
'Gets  good  no  otherwise.     This  blinded  beast 
Loves  whoso  places  flesh-meat  on  his  nose, 
But,  had  he  eyes,  would  want  no  help,  would  hate 
Or  love,  just  as  it  liked  him :  He  hath  eyes. 
Also  it  pleaseth  Setebos  to  work, 
Use  all  His  hands,  and  exercise  much  craft, 
By  no  means  for  the  love  of  what  is  worked. 


CALIBAN  UPON  8ETEBOS.  259 

'Tasteth,  himself,  no  finer  good  i'  the  world 

When  all  goes  right,  in  this  safe  summer-time, 

And  he  wants  little,  hungers,  aches  not  much, 

Than  trying  what  to  do  with  wit  and  strength. 

Falls  to  make  something:  'piled  yon  pile  of  turfs, 

And  squared  and  stuck  there  squares  of  soft  white  chalk, 

And,  with  a  fish-tooth,  scratched  a  moon  on  each, 

And  set  up  endwise  certain  spikes  of  tree, 

And  crowned  the  whole  with  a  sloth's  skull  a-tot, 

Found  dead  i'  the  woods,  too  hard  for  one  to  kill. 

No  use  at  all  i'  the  work,  for  work's  sole  sake; 

'Shall  some  day  knock  it  down  again:  so  He. 

'Saith  He  is  terrible:  watch  His  feats  in  proof! 
One  hurricane  will  spoil  six  good  months'  hope. 
He  hath  a  spite  against  me,  that  I  know, 
Just  as  He  favors  Prosper,  who  knows  why? 
So  it  is,  all  the  same,  as  well  I  find. 
'Wove  wattles  half  the  winter,  fenced  them  firm 
With  stone  and  stake  to  stop  she-tortoises 
Crawling  to  lay  their  eggs  here:  well,  one  wave, 
Feeling  the  foot  of  Him  upon  its  neck, 
Gaped  as  a  snake  does,  lolled  out  its  large  tongue, 
And  licked  the  whole  labor  flat:  so  much  for  spite. 
'Saw  a  ball  flame  down  late  (yonder  it  lies) 
W'here,  half  an  hour  before,  I  slept  i'  the  shade : 
Often  they  scatter  sparkles:  there  is  force! 
'Dug  up  a  newt  He  may  have  envied  once 
And  turned  to  stone,  shut  up  inside  a  stone. 
Please  Him  and  hinder  this? — What  Prosper  does? 
Aha,  if  he  would  tell  me  how!     Not  He! 
There  is  the  sport:  discover  how  or  die! 
All  need  not  die,  for  of  the  things  o'  the  isle 
Some  flee  afar,  some  dive,  some  run  up  trees; 
Those  at  His  mercy,— why,  they  please  Him  most 


260  CALIBAN  UPON  SETEBOS. 


"When    .     .     .     when    .     .     . 

way  twice! 

Repeat  what  act  has  pleased,  He  may  grow  wroth. 
You  must  not  know  His  ways,  and  play  Him  off, 
Sure  of  the  issue.     'Doth  the  like  himself: 
'Spareth  a  squirrel  that  it  nothing  fears 
But  steals  the  nut  from  underneath  my  thumb, 
And  when  I  threat,  bites  stoutly  in  defence: 
'Spareth  an  urchin  that  contrariwise, 
Curls  up  into  a  ball,  pretending  death 
For  fright  at  my  approach :  the  two  ways  please. 
But  what  would  move  my  choler  more  than  this, 
That  either  creature  counted  on  its  life 
To-morrow  and  next  day  and  all  days  to  come, 
Saying  forsooth  in  the  inmost  of  its  hearts, 
"Because  he  did  so  yesterday  with  me, 
And  otherwise  with  such  another  brute, 
So  must  he  do  henceforth  and  always." — Ay? 
'Would  teach  the  reasoning  couple  what  "must"  means! 
'Doth  as  he  likes,  or  wherefore  Lord?     So  He. 

'Conceiveth  all  things  will  continue  thus, 

And  we  shall  have  to  live  in  fear  of  Him 

So  long  as  He  lives,  keeps  His  strength — no  change, 

If  He  have  done  His  best,  make  no  new  world 

To  please  Him  more,  so  leave  off  watching  this, — 

If  He  surprise  not  even  the  Quiet's  self 

Some  strange  day, — or,  suppose,  grow  into  it 

As  grubs  grow  butterflies:  else,  here  are  we, 

And  there  is  He,  and  nowhere  help  at  all. 

'Believeth  with  the  life,  the  pain  shall  stop. 
His  dam  held  different,  that  after  death 
He  both  plagued  enemies  and  feasted  friends: 
Idly !     He  doth  His  worst  in  this  our  life, 
Giving  just  respite  lest  we  die  through  pain. 


CALIBAN  UPON  8ETEBOS.  261 

Saving  last  pain  for  worst, — with  which,  an  end. 
Meanwhile,  the  best  way  to  escape  His  ire 
Is,  not  to  seem  too  happy.     'Sees,  himself, 
Yonder  two  flies,  with  purple  films  and  pink, 
Bask  on  the  pompion-bell  above:  kills  both. 
'Sees  two  black  painful  beetles  roll  their  ball 
On  head  and  tail  as  if  to  save  their  lives: 
Moves  them  the  stick  away  they  strive  to  clear. 

Even  so,  'would  have  Him  misconceive,  suppose 

This  Caliban  strives  hard  and  ails  no  less, 

And  always,  above  all  else,  envies  Him ; 

Wherefore  he  mainly  dances  on  dark  nights, 

Moans  in  the  sun,  gets  under  holes  to  laugh, 

And  never  speaks  his  mind  save  housed  as  now: 

Outside,  'groans,  curses.     If  He  caught  me  here, 

O'erheard  this  speech,  and  asked  "What  chncklest  at?" 

'Would,  to  appease  Him,  cut  a  finger  off, 

Or  of  my  three  kid  yearlings  burn  the  best, 

Or  let  the  toothsome  apples  rot  on  tree, 

Or  push  my  tame  beast  for  the  ore  to  taste: 

While  myself  lit  a  fire,  and  made  a  song 

And  sung  it,  "  What  I  hate,  be  consecrate 

To  celebrate  TJiee  and  Tliy  state,  no  mate 

For  Thee;  what  see  for  envy  in  poor  me  f" 

Hoping  the  while,  since  evils  sometimes  mend, 

Warts  rub  away  and  sores  are  cured  with  slime, 

That  some  strange  day,  will  either  the  Quiet  catch 

And  conquer  Setebos,  or  likelier  He 

Decrepit  may  doze,  doze,  as  good  as  die. 

[What,  what?    A  curtain  o'er  the  world  at  once! 

Crickets  stop  hissing;  not  a  bird — or,  yes, 

There  scuds  His  raven  that  hath  told  Him  all! 

It  was  fool's  play,  this  prattling!     Ha!     The  wind 

Shoulders  the  pillared  dust,  death's  house  o'  the  move, 


362  BA  UL. 

And  fast  invading  fires  begin !    "White  blaze — 

A  tree's  head  snaps — and  there,  therfc,  there,  there,  there, 

His  thnnder  follows!     Fool  to  gibe  at  Him! 

Lo!     'Lieth  flat  and  loveth  Setebos! 

'Maketh  his  teeth  meet  through  his  upper  lip, 

Will  let  those  quails  fly,  will  not  eat  this  month 

One  little  mess  of  whelks,  so  he  may  'scape!] 


SAUL. 

i. 

SAID  Abner,  "At  last  thou  art  come!  Ere  I  tell,  ere  thou 

speak, 

Kiss  my  cheek,  wish  me  well !"  Then  I  wished  it,  and  did 

kiss  his  cheek. 

And  he,  "Since  the  King,  0  my  friend,  for  thy  counte- 
nance sent, 

Neither  drunken  nor  eaten  have  we;  nor  until  from  his 

tent 

Thou  return  with  the  joyful   assurance  the  King  liveth 

yet, 

Shall  our  lip  with  the  honey  be  bright,  with  the  water  be 

wet. 
For  out  of  the  black  mid-tent's  silence,  a  space  of  three 

days, 
Not  a  sound  hath  escaped  to  thy  servants,  of  prayer  nor  of 

praise, 
To  betoken  that  Saul  and  the  Spirit  have  ended  their 

strife, 
And  that,  faint  in  his  triumph,  the  monarch  sinks  back 

upon  life, 


SAUL.  263 

II. 

"Yet  now  my  heart  leaps,  0  beloved !     God's  child  with  his 

dew 
On  thy  gracious  gold  hair,  and  those  lilies  still  living  and 

blue 
Just  broken  to  twine  round  thy  harp-strings,  as  if  no  wild 

heat 
Were  now  raging  to  torture  the  desert!" 


in. 


Then  I,  as  was  meet, 

Knelt  down  to  the  God  of  my  fathers,  and  rose  on  my  feet, 
And  ran  o'er  the  sand  burnt  to  powder.     The  tent  was 

unlooped ; 

I  pulled  up  the  spear  that  obstructed,  and  under  I  stooped; 
Hands  and  knees  on  the  slippery  grass-patch,  all  withered 

and  gone, 

That  extends  to  the  second  enclosure,  I  groped  my  way  on 
Till  I  felt  where  the  foldskirts  fly  open.     Then  once  more 

I  prayed, 
And  opened  the  foldskirts   and  entered,  and   was   not 

afraid, 
"But  spoke,  "Here  is  David,  thy  servant!"     And  no  voice 

replied. 
At  the  first  I  saw  naught  but  the  blackness:  but  soon  I 

descried 
A  something  more  black  than  the  blackness — the  vast,  the 

upright 

Main  prop  which  sustains  the  pavilion :  and  slow  into  sight 
Grew  a  figure  against  it,  gigantic  and  blackest  of  all. 
Then  a  sunbeam,  that  burst  thro'  the  tent-roof,  showed 

Saul, 


Ji64  SAUL. 

IV. 

He  stood  as  erect  as  that  tent-prop,  both  arms  stretched 

out  wide 
On  the  great  cross-support  in  the  center,  that  goes  to  each 

side; 
He  relaxed  not  a  muscle,  but  hung  there  as,  caught  in  his 

pangs 
And  waiting  his  change,   the    king  serpent  all  heavily 

hangs, 

Far  away  from  his  kind,  in  the  pine,  till  deliverance  come 
With  the  spring-time, — so  agonized  Saul,  drear  and  stark, 

blind  and  dumb. 

v. 

Then  I  turned  my  harp, — took  off  the  lilies  we  twine 

round  its  chords 
Lest  they  snap  'neath  the  stress  of  the  noontide — those 

sunbeams  like  swords! 
And  I  first  played  the  tune  all  our  sheep  know,  as,  one 

after  one, 

So  docile  they  come  to  the  pen-door  till  folding  be  done. 
They  are  white  and  untorn  by  the  bushes,  for  lo,  they 

have  fed 
"Where  the  long  grasses  stifle  the  water  within  the  stream's 

bed; 
And  now  one  after  one  seeks  its  lodging,  as  star  follows 

star 
Into  eve  and  the  blue  far  above  us, — so  blue  and  so  far! 

VI. 

— Then  the  tune,  for  which  quails  on  the  cornland  will 

each  leave  his  mate 

To  fly  after  the  player;  then,  what  makes  the  crickets  elate 
Till  for  boldness  they  fight  one  another:  and  then,  what 

has  weight 


SA  UL.  265 

To  set  the  quick  jerboa  a-musing  outside  his  sand  house — 
There  are  none  such  as  he  for  a  wonder,  half  bird  and  half 

mouse! 
God  made  all  the  creatures  and  gave  them  our  love  and 

our  fear, 
To  give  sign,  we  and  they  are  his  children,  one  family 

here. 

VII. 

Then  I  played  the  help-tune  of  our  reapers,  their  wine- 
song,  when  hand 
Grasps  at  hand,  eye  lights  eye  in  good  friendship,  and 

great  hearts  expand 
And  grow  one  in  the  sense  of  this  world's  life. — And  then, 

the  last  song 
When  the  dead  man  is  praised  on  his  journey — "Bear, 

bear  him  along 
With  his  few  faults  shut  up  like  dead  flowerets!    Are 

balm  seeds  not  here 
To  console  us?    The  land  has  none  left  such  as  he  on  the 

bier. 
Oh,  would  we  might  keep  thee,  my  brother!" — And  then, 

the  glad  chaunt 
Of  the  marriage, — first  go  the  young  maidens,  next,  she 

whom  we  vaunt 
As  the  beauty,  the  pride  of  our  dwelling. — And  then,  the 

great  march 
Wherein  man  runs  to  man  to  assist  him  and   buttress  an 

arch 
Naught  can  break;  who  shall  harm  them,  our  friends? 

— Then,  the  chorus  intoned 

As  the  levites  go  up  to  the  altar  in  glory  enthroned. 
But  I  stopped  here:  for  herein  the  darkness  Saul  groaned. 


266  SAUL.. 

VIII. 

And  I  paused,  held  my  breath  in  such  silence,  and  listened 

apart; 

And  the  tent  shook,  for  mighty  Saul  shuddered:  and 

sparkles  'gan  dart 

From  the  jewels  that  woke  in  his  turban  at  once  with  a 

start 

All  its  lordly  male-sapphires,  and  rubies  courageous;  at 

heart. 

So  the  head :  but  the  body  still  moved  not,  still  hung  there 

erect. 

And  I  bent  once  again  to  my  playing,  pursued  it  un- 
checked, 

As  I  sang, — 

IX. 

"Oh,  our  manhood's  prime  vigor!    No  spirit 

feels  waste, 

Not  a  muscle  is  stopped  in  its  playing  nor  sinew  unbraced. 
Oh,  the  wild  joys  of  living!  the  leaping  from  rock  up  to 

rock, 
The  strong  rending  of  boughs  from  the  fir-tree,  the  cool 

silver  shock 
Of  the  plunge  in  a  pool's  living  water,  the  hunt  of  the 

bear, 

And  the  sultriness  showing  the  lion  is  couched  in  his  lair. 
And  the  meal,  the  rich  dates  yellowed  over  with  gold  dust 

divine, 
And  the  locust-flesh  steeped    in  the  pitcher,   the  full 

draught  of  wine, 
And  the  sleep  in  the  dried  river-channel  where  bulrushes 

tell 

That  the  water  was  wont  to  go  warbling  so  softly  and  well. 
How  good  is  man's  life,  the  mere  living!  how  fit  to  employ 
All  the  heart  and  the  soul  and  the  senses  for  ever  in  iov  J 


SAUL.  26? 

Hast  thou  loved  the  white  locks  of  thy  father,  whose  sword 

thou  didst  guard 
When  he  trusted  thee  forth  with  the  armies,  for  glorious 

reward? 
Didst  thou  see  the  thin  hands  of  thy  mother,  held  up  n- 

men  sung 
The  low  song  of  the  nearly  departed,  and  hear  her  fail, 

tongue 
Joining  in  while  it  could  to  the  witness,   'Let  one  more 

attest, 
[  have  lived,  seen  God's  hand  thro'  a  lifetime,  and  all  was 

for  best!' 
Then  they  sung  thro'  their  tears  in  strong  triumph,  not 

much,  but  the  rest. 
And  thy  brothers,  the  help  and  the  contest,  the  working 

whence  grew 
Such  result  as,  from  seething  grape-bundles,  the  spirit 

strained  true: 
And  the  friends  of  thy  boyhood — that  boyhood  of  wonder 

and  hope, 
Present  promise  and  wealth  of  the  future  beyond  the  eye's 

scope, — 

Till  lo,  thou  art  grown  to  a  monarch;  a  people  is  thine; 
And  all  gifts,  which  the  world  offers  singly,  on  one  head 

combine ! 
On  one  head,  all  the  beauty  and  strength,  love  and  rage 

(like  the  throe 
That,  a-work  in  the  rock,  helps  its  labor  and  lets  tho  gold 

go) 
High  ambition  and  deeds  which  surpass  it,  fame  crowning 

them, — all 
Brought  to  blaze  on  the  head   of    one  creature — King 

Saul!" 


268  SAUL. 

x. 

And  lo,  with  that  leap  of  my  spirit, — heart,  hand,  harp 

and  voice, 
Each  lifting  Saul's  name  out  of  sorrow,    each   bidding 

rejoice 
Saul's  fame  in  the  light  it  was  made  for — as  when,  dare  I 

say, 
The  Lord's  army,  in  rapture  of  service,  strains  through 

its  array, 
And  upsoareth  the  cherubim-chariot — "Saul!"   cried  I, 

and  stopped, 
And  waited  the  thing  that  should  follow.     Then  Saul, 

who  hung  propped 
By  the  tent's  cross-support  in  the  center,  was  struck  by 

his  name. 
Have  ye  seen  when  Spring's  arrowy  summons  goes  right 

to  the  aim, 
And  some  mountain,  the  last  to  withstand  her,  that  held 

(he  alone, 
While  the  vale  laughed  in  freedom  and  flowers)  on  a  broad 

bust  of  stone 
A  year's  snow  bound  about  for  a  breastplate, — leaves  grasp 

of  the  sheet? 
Fold  on  fold  all  at  once  it  crowds  thunderously  down  to 

his  feet, 
And  there  fronts  yon,  stark,  black,  but  alive  yet,  your 

mountain  of  old, 

With  his  rents,  the  successive  bequeathings  of  ages  untold — 
Yea,  each  harm  got  in  fighting  your  battles,  each  furrow 

and  scar 
Of  his  head  thrust  'twixt  you  and  the  tempest — all  hail, 

there  they  are! 
— Now  again  to  be  softened  with  verdure,  again  hold  the 

nest 
Of  the  dove,  tempt  the  ^oat  and  its  young  to  the  green  on 

his  crest 


SAUL.  2C9 

For  their  food  in  the  ardors  of  summer.     One  long  shud- 

der  thrilled 
All  the  tent  till  the  very  air  tingled,  then  sank  and  was 

stilled 
At  the  King's  self  left  standing  before  me,  released  and 

aware. 
What  was  gone,  what  remained?    All  to  traverse  'twixt 

hope  and  despair. 
Death  was  past,  life  not  come:  so  he  waited.     Awhile  his 

right  hand 
Held  the  brow,  helped  the  eyes,  left  too  vacant,  forthwith 

to  remand 
To  their  place  what  new  objects  should  enter:    't  was 

Saul  as  before. 
I  looked  up  and  dared  gaze  at  those  eyes,  nor  was  hurt  any 

more 
Than  by  slow  pallid  sunsets  in  autumn,  ye  watch  from  the 

shore, 

At  their  sad  level  gaze  o'er  the  ocean — a  sun's  slow  decline 
Over  hills  which,  resolved  in  stern  silence,  o'erlap  and 

entwine 
Base  with  base  to  knit  strength  more  intensely :   so,  arm 

folded  arm 
O'er  the  chest  whose  slow  heavings  subsided. 

]  xi. 

What  spell  or  what  charm, 
(For  awhile  there  was  trouble  within   me)    what  next 

should  I  urge 
To  sustain  him  where  song  had  restored  him? — Song  filled 

to  the  verge 
His  cup  with  the  wine  of  this  life,  pressing  all  that  it 

yields 
Of  mere  fruitage,  the  strength  and  the  beauty.'  beyond,  on 

what  fields, 


270  SAUL. 

Glean  a  vintage  more  potent  and  perfect  to  brighten  the 

eye 
And  bring  blood  to  the  lip,  and  commend  them  the  cup 

they  put  by? 
He  saith,  "It  is  good;"  still  he  drinks  not:   he  lets  me 

praise  life, 
Gives  assent,  yet  would  die  for  his  own  part. 

XII. 

Then  fancies  grew  rife 
Which  had  come  long  ago  on  the  pasture,  when  round  me 

the  sheep 
Fed  in  silence — above,  the  one  eagle  wheeled  slow  as  in 

sleep ; 
And  I  lay  in  my  hollow  and  mused  on  the  world  that 

might  lie 
'Neath  his  ken,  though  I  saw  but  the  strip  'twixt  the  hill 

and  the  sky. 
And  I  laughed — ''Since  my  days  are  ordained  to  be  passed 

with  my  flocks, 
Let  me  people  at  least,  with  my  fancies,  the  plains  and 

the  rocks, 
Dream  the  life  I  am  never  to  mix  with,  and  image  the 

show 
Of  mankind  as  they  live  in  those  fashions  I  hardly  shall 

know! 
Schemes  of  life,  its  best  rules  and  right  uses,  the  courage 

that  gains, 
And  the  prudence  that  keeps  what  men  strive  for."    And 

now  these  old  trains 
Of  vague  thought  came  again;   I  grew  surer;  so,  once 

more  the  string 
Of  my  harp  made  response  to  my  spirit,  as  thus — 


SAUL  271 

XIII. 

"Yea,  my  King," 
I  began — "thou  dost  well  in  rejecting  mere  comforts  that 

spring 
From  the  mere  mortal  life  held  in  common  by  man  and 

by  brute: 
In  our  flesh  grows  the  branch  of  this  life,  in  our  soul  it 

bears  fruit. 
Thou  hast  marked  the  slow  rise  of  the  tree, — how  its  stem 

trembled  first 
Till  it  passed  the  kid's  'lip,  the  stag's  antler;  then  safely 

outburst 
The  fan-branches  all  round;  and  thou  mindest  when  these 

too,  in  turn, 
Broke  a-bloom  and  the  palm-tree  seemed  perfect:   yet 

more  was  to  learn, 
E'en  the  good  that  comes  in  with  the  palm-fruit.     Our 

dates  shall  we  slight, 
When  their  juice  brings  a  cure  for  all  sorrow?  or  care  for 

the  plight 
Of  the  palm's  self  whose  slow  growth  produced  them?    Not 

so !  stem  and  branch 

Shall  decay,  nor  be  known  in  their  place,  while  the  palm- 
wine  shall  staunch 
Every  wound  of  man's  spirit  in  winter.     I  pour  thee  such 

wine. 
Leave  the  flesh  to  the  fate  it  was  fit  for !    the  spirit  be 

thine! 
By  the  spirit,  when  age  shall  o'ercome  thee,  theu  still 

shalt  enjoy 
More  indeed,  than  at  first,  when  inconscious,  the  life  of  a 

boy. 
Crush  that  life,  and  behold  its  wine  running!     Each  deed 

thou  hast  done 
Dies,  revives,  goes  to  work  in  the  world  j  until  e'en  as  the 

sun 


272  SAUL. 

Looking  down  on  the  earth,  though  clouds  spoil  him, 

though  tempests  efface, 

Can  find  nothing  his  own  deed  produced  not,  must  every- 
where trace 
The  results  of  his  past  summer-prime, — so,  each  ray  of  thy 

will, 
Every  flash  of  thy  passion  and  prowess,  long  over,  shall 

thrill 
Thy  whole  people,  the  countless,  with  ardor,  till  they  too 

give  forth 
A  like  cheer  to  their  sons:  who,  in  turn,  fill  the  South  and 

the  North 
With  the  radiance  thy  deed  was  the  germ  of.     Carouse  in 

the  past! 

But  the  license  of  age  has  its  limit;  thou  diest  at  last. 
As  the  lion  when  age  dims  his  eyeball,  the  rose  at  her 

height, 
So  with  man — so  his  power  and  his  beauty  for  ever  take 

flight. 
No!    Again  a  long  draught  of  my  soul-wine!     Look  forth 

o'er  the  years! 
Thou  hast  done  now  with  eyes  for  the  actual;  begin  with 

the  seer's! 
Is  Saul  dead?    In  the  depth  of  the  vale  make  his  tomb — 

bid  arise 
A  gray  mountain  of  marble  heaped  four-square,  till,  built 

to  the  skies, 
Let  it  mark  where  the  great  First  King  slumbers :  whose 

fame  would  ye  know? 
Up  above  see  the  rock's  naked  face,  where  the  record 

shall  go 
In  great  characters  cut  by  the  scribe. — Such  was  Saul,  so 

he  did; 
With  the  sages  directing  the  work,  by  the  populace  chid, — 


8A  UL.  373 

For  not  half,  they  '11  affirm,  is  comprised  there!     Which 

fault  to  amend, 
In  the  grove  with  his  kind  grows  the  cedar,  whereon  they 

shall  spend 
(See,  in  tablets  't  is  level  before  them)  their  praise,  and 

record 
With  the  gold  of  the  graver,  Saul's  story, — the  statesman's 

great  word 
Side  by  side  with  the  poet's  sweet  comment.     The  river 

's  a-wave 

With  smooth  paper-reeds  grazing  each  other  when  prophet- 
winds  rave : 
So  the  pen  gives  unborn  generations  their  due  and  their 

part 
In  thy  being!    Then,  first  of  the  mighty,  thank  God  that 

thouart!" 

XIV. 

And  behold  while  I  sang  .  .  .  but  0  Thou  who  didst 

grant  me,  that  day, 

And,  before  it,  not  seldom  hast  granted  thy  help  to  essay, 

Carry  on  and  complete  an  adventure, — my  shield  and  my 

sword 

In  that  act  where  my  soul  was  thy  servant,  thy  word  was 

my  word, — 

Still  be  with  me,  who  then  at  the  summit  of  human  en- 
deavor 

And  scaling  the  highest,  man's  thought  could,  gazed 

hopeless  as  ever 

On  the  new  stretch  of  heaven  above  me — till,  mighty  to 

save, 

Just  one  lift  of  thy  hand  cleared  that  distance — God's 

throne  from  man's  grave! 

Let  me  tell  out  my  tale  to  its  ending — my  voice  to  my 

heart 

Which  can  scarce  dare  believe  in  what  marvels  last  night 

I  took^  part, 


274  &A  UL. 

As  this  morning  I  gather  the  fragments,  alone  with  my 

sheep! 

And  still  fear  lest  the  terrible  glory  evanish  like  sleep, 

For  I  wake  in  the  gray  dewy  covert,  while  Hebron  up- 
heaves 

The  dawn  struggling  with  night  on  his  shoulder,  and 

Kidron  retrieves 

Slow  the  damage  of  yesterday's  sunshine. 

xv. 

I  say  then, — my  song 
While  I  sang  thus,  assuring  the  monarch,  and,  ever  more 

strong, 

Made  a  proffer  of  good  to  console  him — he  slowly  resumed 
His  old  motions  and  habitudes  kingly.     The  right  hand 

replumed 
His  black  locks  to  their  wonted  composure,  adjusted  the 

swathes 

Of  his  turban,  and  see — the  huge  sweat  that  his  counte- 
nance bathes, 
He  wipes  off  with  the  robe;  and  he  girds  now  his  loins  as 

of  yore, 
And  feels  slow  for  the  armlets  of  price,  with  the  clasp  set 

before. 

He  is  Saul,  ye  remember  in  glory, — ere  terror  had  bent 
The  broad  brow  from  the  daily  communion;   and  still, 

though  much  spent 
Be  the  life  and  the  bearing  that  front  you,  the  same,  God 

did  choose, 
To  receive  what  a  man  may  waste',  desecrate,  never  quite 

lose. 

So  sank  he  along  by  the  tent-prop,  still,  stayed  by  the  pile 
Of  his  armor  and  war-cloak  and  garments,  he  leaned 


SAUL.  275 

And  sat  out  my  singing, — one  arm  round  the  tent-prop, 

to  raise 
His  bent  head,  and  the  other  hung  slack — till  I  touched 

on  the  praise 
I  foresaw  from  all  men  in  all  time,  to  the  man  patient 

there; 
And  thus  ended,  the  harp  falling  forward.     Then  first  I 

was  'ware 
That  he  sat,  as  I  say,  with  my  head  just  above  his  vast 

knees 
Which  were  thrust  out  on  each  side  around  me,  like  oak 

roots  which  please 

To  encircle  a  lamb  when  it  slumbers.     I  looked  up  to  know 
If  the  best  I  could  do  had  brought  solace :   he  spoke  not, 

but  slow 
Lifted  up  the  hand  slack  at  his  side,  till  he  laid  it  with 

care 
Soft  and  grave,  but  in  mild  settled  will,  on  my  brow: 

thro'  my  hair 
The  large  fingers  were  pushed,  and  he  bent  back  my  head, 

with  kind  power — 

All  my  face  back,  intent  to  peruse  it,  as  men  do  a  flower. 
Thus  held  he  me  there  with  his  great  eyes  that  scrutinized 

mine — 
And  oh,  all  my  heart  how  it  loved  him !   but  where  was 

the  sign? 
I  yearned — "Could  I  help  thee,  my  father,  inventing  a 

bliss, 
I  would  add,  to  that  life  of  the  past,  both  the  future  and 

this; 

I  would  give  thee  new  life  altogether,  as  good,  ages  hence, 
As  this  moment, — had  love  but  the  warrant,  love's  heart 

to  dispense!" 

XVI. 

Then  the  truth  came  upon  me.     No  harp  more — no  song 

more!  outbroke — 


276  SAUL. 

XVII. 

"I  have  gone  the  whole  round  of  creation:   I  saw  and  I 

spoke; 
I,  a  work  of  God's  hand  for  that  purpose,  received  in  my 

brain 
And  pronounced  on  the  rest  of  his  handwork — returned 

him  again 

His  creation's  approval  or  censure:  I  spoke  as  I  saw. 
I  report,  as  a  man  may  of  God's  work — all  's  love,  yet  all 

's  law. 
Now  I  lay  down  the  judgeship  he  lent  me.     Each  faculty 

tasked 
To  perceive  him,  has  gained  an  abyss,  where  a  dewdrop 

was  asked. 
Have  I  knowledge?  confounded  it  shrivels  at  Wisdom  laid 

bare. 
Have  I  forethought?   how  purblind,  how  blank,  to  the 

Infinite  Care! 

Do  I  task  any  faculty  highest,  to  image  success? 
I  but  open  my  eyes, — and  perfection,  no  more  and  no  less, 
In  the  kind  I  imagined,  full-fronts  me,  and  God  is  seen 

God 
In  the  star,  in  the  stone,  in  the  flesh,  in  the  soul  and  the 

clod. 

And  thus  looking  within  and  around  me,  I  ever  renew 
(With  that  stoop  of  the  soul  which  in  bending  upraises  it 

too) 

The  submission  of  man's  nothing-perfect  to  God's  all-com- 
plete, 

As  by  each  new  obeisance  in  spirit,  I  climb  to  his  feet. 
Yet  with  all  this  abounding  experience,  this  deity  known, 
I  shall  dare  to  discover  some  province,  some  gift  of  my 

own. 

There  's  a  faculty  pleasant  to  exercise,  hard  to  hoodwink, 
I  am  fain  to  keep  still  in  abeyance  (I  laugh  as  I  think), 


8A  UL.  277 

Lest,  insisting  to  claim  and  parade  in  it,  wot  ye,  I  worst 
E'en  the  Giver  in  one  gift. — Behold,  I  could  love  if  I 

durst! 

But  I  sink  the  pretension  as  fearing  a  man  may  o'ertake 
God's  own  speed  in  the  one  way  of  love :    I  abstain  for 

love's  sake. 
— What,  my  soul?   see  thus  far  and  no  farther?   when 

doors  great  and  small, 

Nine-and-ninety  flew  ope  at  our  touch,  should  the  hun- 
dredth appal? 
In  the  least  things  have  faith,  yet  distrust  in  the  greatest 

of  all? 

Do  I  find  love  so  full  in  my  nature,  God's  ultimate  gift, 
That  I  doubt  his  own  love  can  compete  with  it?    Here 

the  parts  shift? 
Here,  the  creature  surpass  the  creator, — the  end,  what 

began? 

Would  I  fain  in  my  impotent  yearning  do  all  for  this  man, 
And  dare  doubt  he  alone  shall  not  help  him,  who  yet  alone 

can? 
Would  it  ever  have  entered  my  mind,  the  bare  will,  much 

less  power, 
To  bestow  on  this  Saul  what  I  sang  of,  the  marvellous 

dower 
Of  the  life  he  was  gifted  and  filled  with?  to  make  such  a 

soul, 
Such  a  body,  and  then  such  an  earth  for  insphering  the 

whole? 

And  doth  it  not  enter  my  mind  (as  my  warm  tears  attest) 
These  good  things  being  given,  to  go  on,  and  give  one 

more,  the  best? 
Ay,  to  save  and  redeem  and  restore  him,  maintain  at  the 

height 
This  perfection, — succeed,  with  life's  dayspring,  death's 

minute  of  night? 


278  SAUL. 

Interpose  at  the  difficult  minute,  snatch  Saul,  the  mistake, 

Saul,  the  failure,  the  ruin  he  seems  now, — and  bid  him 

awake 

From  the  dream,  the  probation,  the  prelude,  to  find  him- 
self set 

Clear  and  safe  in  new  light  and  new  life, — a  new  harmony 

yet 

To  be  run  and  continued,  and  ended — who  knows? — or 

endure! 

The  man  taught  enough  by  life's  dream,  of  the  rest  to 

make  sure; 

By  the  pain-throb,  triumphantly  winning  intensified  bliss, 

And  the  next  world's  reward  and  repose,  by  the  struggles 

in  this. 

XVIII. 

I  believe  it!     'T  is  thou,  God,  that  givest,  't  is  I  who 

receive: 

In  the  first  is  the  last,  in  thy  will  is  my  power  to  believe. 
All  's  one  gift:  thou  canst  grant  it  moreover,  as  prompt 

to  my  prayer, 
As  I  breathe  out  this  breath,  as  I  open  these  arms  to  the 

air. 
From  thy  will,  stream  the  worlds,  life  and  nature,  thy 

dread  Sabbath: 

/will? — the  mere  atoms  despise  me!  Why  am  I  not  loth 
To  look  that,  even  that  in  the  face  too?  Why  is  it  I  dare 
Think  but  lightly  of  such  impuissance?  What  stops  my 

despair? 
This; — 't  is  not  what  man  Does  which  exalts  him,  but 

what  man  Would  do! 
See  the  King — I  would  help  him,  but  cannot,  the  wishes 

fall  through. 
Could  I  wrestle  to  raise  him  from  sorrow,  grow  poor  to 

enrich, 
To  fill  up  his  life,  starve  my  own  out,  I  would — knowing 

which, 


8A  UL.  279 

I  know  that  my  service  is  perfect.     Oh,  speak  through 

me  now ! 
Would  I  suffer  for  him  that  I  love?    So  wouldst  thou — 

so  wilt  thou ! 
So  shall  crown  thee  the  topmost,  ineffablest,  uttermost 

crown — 

And  thy  love  fill  infinitude  wholly,  nor  leave  up  nor  down 
One  spot  for  the  creature  to  stand  in !  It  is  by  no  breath, 
Turn  of  eye,  wave  of  hand,  that  salvation  joins  issue  with 

death ! 

As  thy  love  is  discovered  almighty,  almighty  be  proved 
Thy  power,  that  exists  with  and  for  it,  of  being  beloved ! 
He  who  did  most,  shall  bear  most;    the  strongest  shall 

stand  the  most  weak. 
'T  is  the  weakest  in  strength,  that  I  cry  for!    my  flesh, 

that  I  seek 
In  the  Godhead !    I  seek  and  I  find  it.     0  Saul,  it  shall 

be 

A  Face  like  my  face  that  receives  thee;  a  Man  like  to  me, 
Thou  shalt  love  and  be  loved  by,  for  ever :  a  Hand  like 

this  hand 
Shall  throw  open  the  gates  of  new  life  to  thee!    See  the 

Christ  stand!" 

XIX. 

I  know  not  too  well  how  I  found  my  way  home  in  the 

night. 
There  were  witnesses,  cohorts  about  me,  to  left  and  to 

right, 
Angels,   powers,  the  unuttered,  unseen,   the  alive,   the 

aware : 
I  repressed,  I  got  through  them  as  hardly,  as  strugglingly 

there, 

As  a  runner  beset  by  the  populace  famished  for  news — 
Life  or  death,     The    whole  earth  was  awakened,   hell 

loosed  with  her  crews  j 


280  SAUL. 

And  the  stars  of  night  beat  with  emotion,  and  tingled  and 

shot 
Out  in  fire  the  strong  paint  of  pent  knowledge :    but  I 

fainted  not, 
For  the  Hand  still  impelled  me  at  once  and  supported, 

suppressed 
All  the  tumult,  and  quenched  it  with  quiet,  and  holy 

behest, 
Till  the  rapture  was  shut  in  itself,  and  the  earth  sank  to 

rest. 
Anon  at  the  dawn,  all  that  trouble  had  withered  from 

earth — 
Not  so  much,  but  I  saw  it  die  out  in  the  day's  tender 

birth ; 

In  the  gathered  intensity  brought  to  the  gray  of  the  hills; 
In  the  shuddering  forests'  held  breath;    in  the  sudden 

wind-thrills; 
In  the  startled  wild  beasts  that  bore  oft,  each  with  eye 

sidling  still 
Though  averted  with  wonder  and  dread;  in  the  birds  stiff 

and  chill 
That  rose  heavily  as  I  appproached  them,  made  stupid 

with  awe: 
E'en  the  serpent  that  slid  away  silent — he  felt  the  new 

law. 
The  same  stared  in  the  white  humid  faces  upturned  by 

the  flowers; 
The  same  worked  in  the  heart   of  the  cedar  and  moved 

the  vine-bowers: 
And  the  little  brooks   witnessing   murmured,  persistent 

and  lew, 
With  their  obstinate,  all  but  hushed  voices — "E'en  so,  it 

is  so!" 


RABBI  BEN  EZRA.  281 

EABBI  BEN  EZKA. 

i. 

GROW  old  along  with  me! 

The  best  is  yet  to  be, 

The  last  of  life,  for  which  the  first  was  made: 

Our  times  are  in  His  hand 

"Who  saith  "A  whole  I  planned, 

Youth  shows  but  half;  trust  God:  see  all,  nor  be  afraid!" 

n. 

Not  that,  amassing  flowers, 
Youth  sighed  "Which  rose  make  ours, 
Which  lily  leave  and  then  as  best  recall!" 
Not  that,  admiring  stars. 
It  yearned  "Nor  Jove,  nor  Mars; 

Mine  be  some   figured  flame  which  blends,  transcends 
them  all!" 

m. 

Not  for  such  hopes  and  fears 

Annulling  youth's  brief  years, 

Do  I  remonstrate:  folly  wide  the  mark! 

Rather  I  prize  the  doubt 

Low  kinds  exist  without, 

Finished  and  finite  clods,  untroubled  by  a  spark. 

IV. 

Poor  vaunt  of  life  indeed, 
Were  man  but  formed  to  feed 
On  joy,  to  solely  seek  and  find  and  feast: 
Such  feasting  ended,  then 
As  sure  an  end  to  men ; 

Irks  care  the  crop-full  bird?    Frets   doubt   the  maw- 
cram  in  ed  beast? 


283  RABBT  BEN  EZRA. 

V. 

Eejoice  we  are  allied 

To  That  which  doth  provide 

And  not  partake,  effect  and  not  receive ! 

A  spark  disturbs  our  clod ; 

Nearer  we  hold  of  God 

Who  gives,  than  of  His  tribes  that  take,  I  must  believe. 

VI. 

Then,  welcome  each  rebuff 
That  turns  earth's  smoothness  rough, 
Each  sting  that  bids  nor  sit  nor  stand  but  go! 
Be  our  joys  three-parts  pain ! 
Strive,  and  hold  cheap  the  strain ; 

Learn,  nor  account  the  pang;    dare,  never  grudge  the 
throe! 

VII. 

For  thence, — a  paradox 
Which  comforts  while  it  mocks, — 
Shall  life  succeed  in  that  it  seems  to  fail: 
What  I  aspired  to  be, 
And  was  not,  comforts  me: 

A  brute  I  might  have  been,  but  would  not  sink  i*  the 
scale. 

VIII. 

What  is  he  but  a  brute 

Whose  flesh  has  soul  to  suit, 

Whose  spirit  works  lest  arms  and  legs  want  play? 

To  man,  propose  this  test-^ 

Thy  body  at  its  best, 

How  far  can  that  project  thy  soul  on  its  lone  way? 

IX. 

Yet  gifts  should  prove  their  use; 
I  own  the  Past  profuse 


RA BBI  BEN  EZRA .  283 

Of  power  each  side,  perfection  every  turn : 
Eyes,  ears  took  in  their  dole, 
Brain  treasured  up  the  whole; 

Should  not  the  heart  beat  once  "How  good  to  live  and 
learn?'* 

x. 

Not  once  beat  "Praise  be  Thine! 

I  see  the  whole  design, 

I,  who  saw  power,  see  now  love  perfect  too: 

Perfect  I  call  Thy  plan : 

Thanks  that  I  was  a  man ! 

Maker,  remake,  complete, — I  trust  what  Thou  shalt  do!" 

XI. 

For  pleasant  is  this  flesh ; 

Our  soul,  in  its  rose-mesh 

Pulled  ever  to  the  earth,  still  yearns  for  rest: 

Would  we  some  prize  might  hold 

To  match  those  manifold 

Possessions  of  the  brute, — gain  most,  as  we  did  bestt 

XII. 

Let  us  not  always  say 
"Spite  of  this  flesh  to-day 

I  strove,  made  head,  gained  ground  upon  the  whole!" 
As  the  bird  wings  and  sings, 
Let  us  cry  "All  good  things 

Are  ours,  nor  soul  helps  flesh  more,  now,  than  flesh  helps 
soul!" 

XIII. 

Therefore  I  summon  age 

To  grant  youth's  heritage, 

Life's  struggle  having  so  far  reached  its  term: 

Thence  shall  I. pass,  approved 

A  man,  for  aye  removed 

From  the  developed  brute;  a  God  though  in  the  germ. 


284  RABBI  BEN  EZRA. 

XIV. 

And  I  shall  thereupon 

Take  rest,  ere  I  be  gone 

Once  more  on  my  adventure  brave  and  new: 

Fearless  and  unperplexed, 

When  I  wage  battle  next, 

What  weapons  to  select,  what  armor  to  indue. 

xv. 

Youth  ended,  I  shall  try 

My  gain  or  loss  thereby; 

Leave  the  fire  ashes,  what  survives  is  gold : 

And  I  shall  weigh  the  same, 

Give  life  its  praise  or  blame: 

Young,  all  lay  in  dispute;  I  shall  know,  being  old. 

XVI. 

For,  note  when  evening  shuts, 

A  certain  moment  cuts, 

The  deed  off,  calls  the  glory  from  the  gray: 

A  whisper  from  the  west 

Shoots — "Add  this  to  the  rest, 

Take  it  and  try  its  worth:  here  dies  another  day." 

XVII. 

So,  still  within  this  life, 

Though  lifted  o'er  its  strife, 

Let  me  discern,  compare,  pronounce  at  last 

"This  rage  was  right  i'  the  main, 

That  acquiescence  vain : 

The  Future  I  may  face  now  I  have  proved  the  Past.' 

XVIII. 

For  more  is  not  reserved 

To  man,  with  soul  just  nerved 


RABBI  BEN  EZRA.  285 

To  act  to-morrow  what  he  learns  to-day: 

Here,  work  enough  to  watch 

The  Master  work,  and  catch 

Hints  of  the  proper  craft,  tricks  of  the  tool's  true  play. 

XIX. 

As  it  was  better,  youth 

Should  strive,  through  acts  uncouth, 

Toward  making,  than  repose  on  aught  found  made: 

So,  better,  age,  exempt 

From  strife,  should  know,  than  tempt 

Further.     Thou  waitedst  age :  wait  death  nor  be  afraid ! 

xx. 

Enough  now,  if  the  Eight 

And  Good  and  Infinite 

Be  named  here,  as  thou  callest  thy  hand  thine  own, 

With  knowledge  absolute, 

Subject  to  no  dispute 

From  fools  that  crowded  youth,  nor  let  thee  feel  alone. 

XXI. 

Be  there,  for  oace  and  all, 
Severed  great  minds  from  small, 
Announced  to  each  his  station  in  the  Past! 
Was  I,  the  world  arraigned, 
Were  they,  my  soul  disdained, 

Right?    Let  age  speak  the  truth  and  give  us  peace  at 
last! 

XXII. 

Now,  who  shall  arbitrate? 

Ten  men  love  what  I  hate, 

Shun  what  I  follow,  slight  what  I  receive; 

Ten,  who  in  ears  and  eyes 

Match  me:  we  all  surmise, 

They,  this  thing,  and  I,  that:  whom  shall  my  soul  believe? 


286  RABBI  BEN  EZRA. 

XXIII. 

Not  on  the  vulgar  mass 

Called  "work,"  must  sentence  pass, 

Things  done,  that  took  the  eye  and  had  the  price; 

O'er  which,  from  level  stand, 

The  low  world  laid  its  hand, 

Found  straightway  to  its  mind,  could  value  in  a  trice: 

XXIV. 

But  all,  the  world's  coarse  thumb 
And  finger  failed  to  plumb, 
So  passed  in  making  up  the  main  account: 
All  instincts  immature, 
All  purposes  unsure, 

That  weighed  not  as  his  work,  yet  swelled  the  man's 
amount : 

XXV. 

Thoughts  hardly  to  be  packed 

Into  a  narrow  act, 

Fancies  that  broke  through  language  and  escaped: 

All  I  could  never  be, 

All,  men  ignored  in  me, 

This,  I  was  worth  to  God,  whose  wheel  the  pitcher  shaped. 

XXVI. 

Ay,  note  that  Potter's  wheel, 
That  metaphor !  and  feel 

Why  time  spins  fast,  why  passive  lies  our  clay, — 
Thou,  to  whom  fools  propound, 
"When  the  wine  makes  its  round, 

"Since  life  fleets,  all  is  change;  the  Past  gone,  seize  to- 
day!" 


RABBI  BEN  EZRA.  28? 

XXVII. 

Fool !    All  that  is,  at  all, 

Lasts  ever,  past  recall ; 

Earth  changes,  but  thy  soul  and  God  stand  sure: 

What  entered  into  thee, 

That  was,  is,  and  shall  be: 

Time's  wheel  runs  back  or  stops:  Potter  and  clay  endure. 

XXVIII. 

He  fixed  thee  mid  this  dance 

Of  plastic  circumstance, 

This  Present,  thou,  forsooth,  wouldst  fain  arrest: 

Machinery  just  meant 

To  give  thy  soul  its  bent, 

Try  thee  and  turn  thee  forth,  sufficiently  impressed. 

XXIX. 

What  though  the  earlier  grooves 

AVhich  ran  the  laughing  loves 

Around  thy  base,  no  longer  pause  and  press? 

What  though,  about  thy  rim, 

Scull-things  in  order  grim 

Grow  out,  in  graver  mood,  obey  the  sterner  stress? 

XXX. 

Look  not  thou  down  but  up! 
To  uses  of  a  cup, 

The  festal  board,  lamp's  flash  and  trumpet's  peal, 
The  new  wine's  foaming  flow, 
The  Master's  lips  a-glow! 

Thou,  heaven's  consummate  cup,  what  needst  thou  with 
earth's  wheel? 

XXXI. 

But  I  need,  now  as  then, 
Thee,  God,  who  mouldest  men! 


288  EPILOGUE 

And  since,  not  even  while  the  whirl  was  worst, 

Did  I, — to  the  wheel  of  life 

With  shapes  and  colors  rife, 

Bound  dizzily, — mistake  my  end,  to  slake  Thy  thirst: 

XXXII. 

So,  take  and  use  Thy  work, 

Amend  what  flaws  may  lurk, 

What  strain  o'  the  stuff,  what  warpings  past  the  aim! 

My  times  be  in  Thy  hand ! 

Perfect  the  cup  as  planned ! 

Let  age  approve  of  youth,  and  death  complete  the  same! 


EPILOGUE. 

FIRST  SPEAKER,  as  Damd. 

I. 

ON  the  first  of  the  Feast  of  Feasts, 

The  Dedication  Day, 
When  the  Levites  joined  the  Priests 

At  the  Altar  in  robed  array, 
Gave  signal  to  sound  and  say, — 

ii. 

When  the  thousands,  rear  and  van, 
Swarming  with  one  accord, 

Became  as  a  single  man, 
(Look,  gesture,  thought  and  word) 

In  praising  and  thanking  the  Lord, — 

in. 

When  the  singers  lift  up  their  voice, 
And  the  trumpets  made  endeavor, 


EPILOGUE.  289 


Sounding/ 'In  God  rejoice!" 

Saying,  "In  Him  rejoice 
Whose  mercy  endureth  for  ever!" 


IV. 

Then  the  Temple  filled  with  a  cloud, 

Even  the  House  of  the  Lord ; 
Porch  bent  and  pillar  bowed : 

For  the  presence  of  the  Lord, 
In  the  glory  of  His  cloud, 

Had  filled  the  House  of  the  Lord. 

SECOND  SPEAKER,  as  Renan. 

Gone  now!     All  gone  across  the  dark  so  far, 

Sharpening  fast,  shuddering  ever,  shutting  still, 
Dwindling  into  the  distance,  dies  that  star 

Which  came,  stood,  opened  once!     We  gazed  our  fill 
With  upturned  faces  on  as  real  a  Face 

That,  stooping  from  grave  music  and  mild  fire, 
Took  in  our  homage,  made  a  visible  place 

Through  many  a  depth  of  glory,  gyre  on  gyre, 
For  the  dim  human  tribute.     Was  this  true? 

Could  man  indeed  avail,  mere  praise  of  his, 
To  help  by  rapture  God's  own  rapture  too, 

Thrill  with  a  heart's  red  tinge  that  pure  pale  bliss? 
Why  did  it  end?     Who  failed  to  beat  the  breast, 

And  shriek,  and  throw  the  arms  protesting  wide 
When  at  first  shadow  showed  the  star  addressed 

Itself  to  motion,  and  on  either  side 
The  rims  contracted  as  the  rays  retired; 

The  music,  like  a  fountain's  sickening  pulse, 
Subsided  on  itself;  awhile  transpired 

Some  vestige  of  a  Face  no  pangs  convulse, 


290  EPILOGUE. 

No  prayers  retard ;  then  even  this  was  gone, 

Lost  in  the  night  at  last.     We,  lone  and  left 
Silent  through  centuries,  ever  and  anon 

Venture  to  probe  again  the  vault  bereft 
Of  all  now  save  the  lesser  lights,  a  mist 

Of  multitudinous  points,  yet  suns,  men  say — 
And  this  leaps  ruby,  this  lurks  amethyst, 

But  where  may  hide  what  came  and  loved  our  clay? 
How  shall  the  sage  detect  in  yon  expanse 

The  star  which  chose  to  stoop  and  stay  for  us? 
Unroll  the  records!     Hailed  ye  such  advance 

Indeed,  and  did  your  hope  evanish  thus? 
Watchers  of  twilight,  is  the  worst  averred? 

We  shall  not  look  up,  know  ourselves  are  seen, 
Speak,  and  be  sure  that  we  again  are  heard, 

Acting  or  suffering,  have  the  disk's  serene 
Eeflect  our  life,  absorb  an  earthly  flame, 

Nor  doubt  that,  were  mankind  inert  and  numb, 
Its  core  had  never  crimsoned  all  the  same, 

Nor,  missing  ours,  its  music  fallen  dumb? 
Oh,  dread  succession  to  a  dizzy  post, 

Sad  sway  of  sceptre  whose  mere  touch  appals, 
Ghastly  dethronement,  cursed  by  those  the  most 

On  whose  repugnant  brow  the  crown  next  falls ! 

THIRD  SPEAKEB. 

I. 

Witless  alike  of  will  and  way  divine, 

How  heaven's  high  with  earth's  low  should  intertwine! 

Friends,  I  have  seen  through  your  eyes:  now  use  mine! 


Take  the  least  man  of  all  mankind,  as  I; 
Look  at  his  head  and  heart,  find  how  and  why 
He  differs  from  his  fellows  utterly: 


EPILOGUE.  291 

ill. 

Then,  like  me,  watch  when  nature  by  degrees 
Grows  alive  round  him  as  in  Arctic  seas 
(They  said  of  old)  the  instinctive  water  flees 

IV. 

Toward  some  elected  point  of  central  rock, 
As  though,  for  its  sake  only,  roamed  the  flock 
Of  waves  about  the  waste :  awhile  they  mock 

v. 

With  radiance  caught  for  the  occasion, — hues 
Of  blackest  hell  now,  now  such  reds  and  blues 
As  only  heaven  could  fitly  interfuse, — 

VI. 

The  mimic  monarch  of  the  whirlpool,  king 
0'  the  current  for  a  minute:  then  they  wring 
Up  by  the  roots  and  oversweep  the  thing, 

VII. 

And  hasten  off,  to  play  again  elsewhere 
The  same  part,  choose  another  peak  as  bare, 
They  find  and  flatter,  feast  and  finish  there. 

VIII. 

When  you  see  what  I  tell  you, — nature  dance 

About  each  man  of  us,  retire,  advance, 

As  though  the  pageant's  end  were  to  enhance 

IX. 

His  worth,  and — once  the  life,  his  product,  gained — 

Roll  away  elsewhere,  keep  the  strife  sustained, 

And  show  thus  real,  a  thing  the  North  but  feigned,— 


A   WALL. 


X. 


When  you  acknowledge  that  one  world  could  do 
All  the  diverse  work,  old  yet  ever  new, 
Divide  us,  each  from  other,  me  from  you, — 


XI. 


Why,  where  's  the  need  of  Temple,  when  the  walls 
0'  the  world  are  that?    What  use  of  swells  and  falls 
From  Levites'  choir,  Priests'  cries,  and  trumpet-calls? 


XII. 


That  one  Face,  far  from  vanish,  rather  grows, 
Or  decomposes  but  to  recompose, 
Become  my  universe  that  feels  and  knows ! 


A  WALL, 
i. 


OH  the  old  wall  here!     How  I  could  pass 
Life  in  a  long  midsummer  day, 

My  feet  confined  to  a  plot  of  grass, 
My  eyes  from  a  wall  not  once  away ! 


ii. 


And  lush  and  lithe  do  the  creepers  clothe 
Yon  wall  I  watch,  with  a  wealth  of  green; 

Its  bald  red  bricks  draped,  nothing  loth, 
In  lappets  of  tangle  they  laugh  between. 


in. 


Now  what  is  it  makes  pulsate  the  robe? 

Why  tremble  the  sprays?    What  life  o'erbrims 
The  body, — the  house,  no  eye  can  probe, — 

Divined  as,  beneath  a  robe,  the  limbs? 


APPARITIONS.  293 

IV. 

And  there  again !     But  my  heart  may  guess 
Who  tripped  behind;  and  she  sang  perhaps: 

So,  the  old  wall  throbbed,  and  its  life's  excess 
Died  out  and  away  in  the  leafy  wraps. 

v. 

Wall  upon  wall  are  between  us :  life 

And  song  should  away  from  heart  to  heart! 

I — prison-bird,  with  a  ruddy  strife 
At  breast,  and  a  lip  whence  storm-notes  start — 

VI. 

Hold  on,  hope  hard  in  the  subtle  thing 
That 's  spirit:  though  cloistered  fast,  soar  free; 

Account  as  wood,  brick,  stone,  this  ring 
Of  the  rueful  neighbors,  and — forth  to  thee! 


APPARITIONS. 


±\. 


L 

SUCH  a  starved  bank  of  moss 
Till,  that  May-morn, 

Blue  ran  the  flash  across- 
Violets  were  born ! 

n. 

Sky — what  a  scowl  of  cloud 

Till,  near  and  far, 
Ray  on  ray  split  the  shroud: 

Splendid,  a  star! 


294.  NATURAL  MAGIC. 

ill. 

World — how  it  walled  about 
Life  with  disgrace 

Till  God's  own  smile  came  out: 
That  was  thy  face ! 


NATURAL  MAGIC. 
i. 

ALL  I  can  say  is — I  saw  it ! 

The  room  was  as  bare  as  your  hand. 

I  locked  in  the  swarth  little  lady, — I  swear, 

From  the  head  to  the  foot  of  her — well,  quite  as  bare! 

"No  Nautch  shall  cheat  me,"  said  I,  "taking  my  stand 

At  this  bolt  which  I  draw!"     And  this  bolt — I  withdraw 

it, 

And  there  laughs  the  lady,  not  bare,  but  embowered 
With — who  knows  what  verdure,  o'erfruited,  o'erflowered? 
Impossible!     Only — I  saw  it! 

n. 

All  I  can  sing  is — I  feel  it! 

This  life  was  as  blank  as  that  room ; 

I  let  you  pass  in  here.     Precaution^  indeed? 

Walls,  ceiling,  and  floor, — not  a  chance  for  a  weed ! 

Wide   opens  the  entrance:  where  's  cold  now,  where  's 

gloom? 

No  May  to  sow  seed  here,  no  June  to  reveal  it, 
Behold  you  enshrined  in  these  blooms  of  your  bringing, 
These  fruits  of  your  bearing — nay,  birds  of  your  winging! 
A  fairy-tale!    Only — I  feel  it! 


A  TALE.  295 

A    TALE. 
I. 

WHAT  a  pretty  tale  you  told  me 

Once  upon  a  time 
— Said  you  found  it  somewhere  (scold  me!) 

Was  it  prose  or  was  it  rhyme, 
Greek  or  Latin?     Greek,  you  said, 
While  your  shoulder  propped  my  head. 

n. 

Anyhow  there  's  no  forgetting 

This  much  if  no  more, 
That  a  poet  (pray,  no  petting  ty 

Yes,  a  bard,  sir,  famed  of  yore, 
Went  where  suchlike  used  to  go, 
Singing  for  a  prize,  you  know. 

in. 

Well,  he  had  to  sing,  nor  merely 

Sing  but  play  the  lyre; 
Playing  was  important  clearly 

Quite  as  singing:  I  desire, 
Sir,  you  keep  the  fact  in  mind 
For  a  purpose  that 's  behind. 

IV. 

There  stood  he,  while  deep  attention 

Held  the  judges  round, 
— Judges  able,  I  should  mention, 

To  detect  the  slightest  sound 
Sung  or  played  amiss:  such  ears 
Had  old  judges,  it  appears ! 


296  .  A  TALE. 

v. 

None  the  less  he  sang  out  boldly, 

Played  in  time  and  tune, 
Till  the  judges,  weighing  coldly 

Each  note's  worth,  seemed,  late  or  soon, 
Sure  to  smile  "In  vain  one  tries 
Picking  faults  out:  take  the  prize!'* 

VI. 

When,  a  mischief!     Were  they  seven 

Strings  the  lyre  possessed? 
Oh,  and  afterward  eleven, 

Thank  you !    Well,  sir, — who  had  guessed 
Such  ill  luck  in  store? — it  happed 
One  of  those  same  seven  strings  snapped. 

VII. 

All  was  lost,  then!    No!  a  cricket 

(What  "cicada"?     Pooh!) 
— Some  mad  thing  that  left  its  thicket 

For  mere  love  of  music— flew 
With  its  little  heart  on  fire, 
Lighted  on  the  crippled  lyre. 

VIII. 

So  that  when  (Ah  joy !)  our  singer 

For  his  truant  string 
Feels  with  disconcerted  finger, 

What  does  cricket  else  but  fling 
Fiery  heart  forth,  sound  the  note 
Wanted  by  the  throbbing  throat? 

IX. 

Ay  and,  ever  to  the  ending, 

Cricket  chirps  at  need, 
Executes  the  hand's  intending, 

Promptly,  perfectly, — indeed 


A  TALE.  297 

Saves  the  singer  from  defeat 
With  her  chirrup  low  and  sweet. 

x. 

Till,  at  ending,  all  the  judges 

Cry  with  one  assent 
''Take  the  prize — a  prize  who  grudges 

Such  a  voice  and  instrument? 
Why,  we  took  your  lyre  for  harp, 
So  it  shrilled  us  forth  F  sharp!" 

XI. 

Did  the  conqueror  spurn  the  creature, 

Once  its  service  done? 
That  's  no  such  uncommon  feature 

In  the  case  when  Music's  son 
Finds  his  Lotte's  pover  too  spent 
For  aiding  soul-development. 

XII. 

No!     This  other,  on  returning 

Homeward,  prize  in  hand, 
Satisfied  his  bosom's  yearning: 

(Sir,  I  hope  you  understand!) 
— Said  "Some  record  there  must  be 
Of  this  cricket's  help  to  me!" 

XIII. 

So,  he  made  himself  a  statue: 

Marble  stood,  life-size; 
On  the  lyre,  he  pointed  at  you, 

Perched  his  partner  in  the  prize; 
Never  more  apart  you  found 
Her,  he  throned,  from  him,  she  crowned. 

XIV. 

That  's  the  tale:  its  application? 
Somebody  I  know 


298  ^  TALE. 

Hopes  one  day  for  reputation 

Through  his  poetry  that  's — Oh, 
All  so  learned  and  so  wise, 
And  deserving  of  a  prize! 

xv. 

If  he  gains  one,  will  some  ticket, 

When  his  statue  's  built, 
Tell  the  gazer  "  'T  was  a  cricket 

Helped  my  crippled  lyre,  whose  lilt1 
Sweet  and  low,  when  strength  usurped 
Softness'  place  i'  the  scale,  she  chirped? 

XVI. 

"For  as  victory  was  nighest, 
While  I  sang  and  played, — 

With  my  lyre  at  lowest,  highest, 
Eight  alike, — one  string  that  made 

'Love'  sound  soft  was  snapt  in  twain, 

Never  to  be  heard  again, — 

XVII. 

"Had  not  a  kind  cricket  fluttered, 

Perched  upon  the  place 
Vacant  left,  and  duly  uttered 

'Love,  Love,  Love,'  whene'er  the  bass 
Asked  the  treble  to  atone 
For  its  somewhat  sombre  drone." 

XVIII. 

But  you  don't  know  music!     Wherefore 

Keep  on  casting  pearls 
To  a — poet?    All  I  care  for 

Is — to  tell  him  that  a  girl's 
"Love"  comes  aptly  in  when  gruff 
Grows  his  singing.     (There,  enough !) 


CONFESSIONS. 

CONFESSIONS. 
i. 

WHAT  is  he  buzzing  in  my  ears? 

"Now  that  I  come  to  die, 
Do  I  view  the  world  as  a  vale  of  tears  ?" 

Ah,  reverend  sir,  not  I! 

n. 

"What  I  viewed  there  once,  what  I  view  again 

Where  the  physic  bottles  stand 
On  the  table's  edge, — is  a  suburb  lane, 

With  a  wall  to  my  bedside  hand. 

in. 

That  lane  sloped,  much  as  the  bottles  do, 

From  a  house  you  could  descry 
O'er  the  garden-wall:  is  the  curtain  blue 

Or  green  to  a  healthy  eye? 

IV. 

To  mine,  it  serves  for  the  old  June  weather 

Blue  above  lane  and  wall ; 
And  that  farthest  bottle  labelled  "Ether" 

Is  the  house  o'er-topping  all. 

v. 

At  a  terrace  somewhat  near  the  stopper, 
There  watched  for  me,  one  June, 


300  CONFESSIONS. 

A  girl :  I  know,  sir,  it  's  improper, 
My  poor  mind  's  out  of  tune. 


VI. 


Only  there  was  a  way  .  .  .  you  crept 

Close  by  the  side,  to  dodge 
Eyes  in  the  house,  two  eyes  except: 

They  styled  their  house  "The  Lodge." 


VII. 


What  right  had  a  lounger  up  their  lane? 

But,  by  creeping  very  close, 
With  the  good  wall's  help,  their  eyes  might  strain 

And  stretch  themselves  to  Oes, 


VIII. 


Yet  never  catch  her  and  me  together, 

As  she  left  the  attic,  there, 
By  the  rim  of  the  bottle  labelled  "Ether," 

And  stole  from  stair  to  stair, 


IX. 


And  stood  by  the  rose-wreathed  gate.     Alas, 

We  loved,  sir — used  to  meet: 
How  sad  and  bad  and  mad  it  was — 

But  then,  how  it  was  sweet! 


GARDEN  FANCIES.  #01 

MAGICAL  NATURE. 
I. 

FLOWER — I  never  fancied,  jewel — I  profess  you! 

Bright  I  see  and  soft  I  feel  the  outside  of  a  flower. 
Save  but  glow  inside  and — jewel,  I  should  guess  you, 

Dim  to  sight  and  rough  to  touch :  the  glory  is  the  dower. 

n. 

You,  forsooth,  a  flower?    Nay,  my  love,  a  jewel — 
Jewel  at  no  mercy  of  a  moment  in  your  prime! 

Time  may  fray  the  flower-face:  kind  be  time  or  cruel, 
Jewel,  from  each  facet,  flash  your  laugh  at  time! 


GARDEN  FANCIES. 

i.  THE  FLOWER'S  NAME. 
i. 

HERE'S  the  garden  she  walked  across, 

Arm  in  my  arm,  such  a  short  while  since: 
Hark,  now  I  push  its  wicket,  the  moss 

Hinders  the  hinges  and  makes  them  wince! 
She  must  have  reached  this  shrub  ere  she  turned, 

As  back  with  that  murmur  the  wicket  swung; 
For  she  laid  the  poor  snail,  my  chance  foot  spurned, 

To  feed  and  forget  it  the  leaves  among. 

ii. 

Down  this  side  of  the  gravel -walk 

She  went  while  her  robe's  edge  brushed  the  box; 
And  here  she  paused  in  her  gracious  talk 

To  point  me  a  moth  on  the  milk-white  phlox. 


302  GARDEN  FANCIES. 

Roses,  ranged  in  valiant  row, 

I  will  never  think  that  she  passed  you  by ! 
She  loves  you  noble  roses,  I  know; 

But  yonder,  see,  where  the  rock-plants  lie! 

in. 

This  flower  she  stopped  at,  finger  on  lip, 

Stooped  over,  in  doubt,  as  settling  its  claim ; 
Till  she  gave  me,  with  pride  to  make  no  slip, 

Its  soft  meandering  Spanish  name. 
What  a  name!     Was  it  love,  or  praise? 

Speech  half -sleep,  or  song  half-awake? 
I  must  learn  Spanish,  one  of  these  days, 

Only  for  that  slow  sweet  name's  sake. 

IV. 

Eoses, — if  I  live  and  do  well, 

I  may  bring  her,  one  of  these  days, 
To  fix  you  fast  with  as  fine  a  spell, 

Fit  you  each  with  his  Spanish  phrase. 
But  do  not  detain  me  now;  for  she  lingers 

There,  like  sunshine  over  the  ground, 
And  ever  I  see  her  soft  white  fingers 

Searching  after  the  bud  she  found. 

v. 

Flower,  you  Spaniard,  look  that  you  grow  not, 
'     Stay  as  you  are  and  be  loved  forever ! 
Bud,  if  I  kiss  you  'tis  that  you  blow  not, 

Mind,  the  shut  pink  mouth  opens  never! 
For  while  it  pouts,  her  fingers  wrestle, 

Twinkling  the  audacious  leaves  between, 
Till  round  they  turn  and  down  they  nestle; 

Is  not  the  dear  mark  still  to  be  seen? 


GARDEN  FANCIES.  303 

VI. 

Where  I  find  her  not,  beauties  vanish; 

Whither  I  follow  her,  beauties  flee : 
Is  there  no  method  to  tell  her  in  Spanish 

June  's  twice  June  since  she  breathed  it  with  me? 
Come,  bud,  show  me  the  least  of  her  traces, 

Treasure  my  lady's  lightest  footfall ! 
— Ah,  you  may  flout  and  turn  up  your  faces — 

Eoses,  you  are  not  so  fair  after  all ! 

II.      SIBRANDUS   SCHAFNABURGENSIS. 


PLAGUE  take  all  your  pedants,  say  I ! 

He  who  wrote  what  1  hold  in  my  hand, 
Centuries  back  was  so  good  as  to  die, 

Leaving  this  rubbish  to  cumber  the  land ; 
This,  that  was  a  book  in  its  time, 

Printed  on  paper  and  bound  in  leather, 
Last  month  in  the  white  of  a  matin-prime 

Just  when  the  birds  sang  all  together, 

ii. 

Into  the  garden  I  brought  it  to  read, 

And  under  the  arbute  and  laurustine 
Read  it,  so  help  me  grace  in  my  need, 

From  title-page  to  closing  line. 
Chapter  on  chapter  did  I  count, 

As  a  curious  traveller  counts  Stonehenge; 
Added  up  the  mortal  amount, 

And  then  proceeded  to  my  revenge. 

in. 

Yonder  's  a  plum-tree  with  a  crevice 
An  owl  would  build  in,  were  he  but  sage; 

For  a  lap  of  moss,  like  a  fine  pont  levis 
In  a  castle  of  the  middle  age, 


304  GARDEN  FANCIES. 

Joins  to  a  lip  of  gum,  pure  amber; 

When  he  'd  be  private,  there  might  he  spend 
Hours  alone  in  his  lady's  chamber: 

Into  this  crevice  I  dropped  our  friend. 

IV. 

Splash,  went  he,  as  under  he  ducked, 

— At  the  bottom,  I  knew,  rain-drippings  stagnate; 
Next,  a  handful  of  blossoms  I  plucked 

To  bury  him  with,  my  bookshelf's  magnate; 
Then  I  went  indoors,  brought  out  a  loaf, 

Half  a  cheese,  and  a  bottle  of  Chablis; 
Lay  on  the  grass  and  forgot  the  oaf 

Over  a  jolly  chapter  of  Kabelais. 

v. 

Now,  this  morning,  betwixt  the  moss 

And  gum  that  locked  6ur  friend  in  limbo, 
A  spider  had  spun  his  web  across, 

And  sat  in  the  midst  with  arms  akimbo: 
So,  I  took  pity,  for  learning's  sake, 

And,  de  profundis,  accentibus  latis, 
Cantale!  quoth  I,  as  I  got  a  rake; 

And  up  I  fished  his  delectable  treatise. 

VI. 

Here  you  have  it,  dry  in  the  sun, 

With  all  the  binding  all  of  a  blister, 
And  great  blue  spots  where  the  ink  has  run, 

And  reddish  streaks  that  wink  and  glister 
O'er  the  page  so  beautifully  yellow : 

Oh,  well  have  the  droppings  played  their  tricks! 
Did  he  guess  how  toadstools  grow,  this  fellow? 

Here's  one  stuck  in  his  chapter  six! 


GARDEN  FANCIES.  305 

VII. 

How  did  he  like  it  when  the  live  creatures 

Tickled  arid  toused  and  browsed  him  all  over, 
And  worm,  slug,  eft,  with  serious  features, 

Came  in,  each  one,  for  his  right  of  trover? 
— When  the  water-beetle  with  great  blind  deaf  face 

Made  of  her  eggs  the  stately  deposit, 
And  the  newt  borrowed  just  so  much  of  the  preface 

As  tiled  in  the  top  of  his  black  wife's  closet? 

VIII. 

All  that  life  and  fun  and  romping, 

All  that  frisking  and  twisting  and  coupling, 
While  slowly  our  poor  friend's  leaves  were  swamping, 

And  clasps  were  cracking,  and  covers  suppling! 
As  if  you  had  carried  sour  John  Knox 

To  the  playhouse  at  Paris,  Vienna,  or  Munich, 
Fastened  him  into  a  front-row  box, 

And  danced  off  the  ballet  with  trousers  and  tunic. 

IX. 

Come,  old  martyr!    What,  torment  enough  is  it? 

Back  to  my  room  shall  you  take  your  sweet  self. 
Good-by,  mother-beetle;  husband-eft,  sufficit! 

See  the  snug  niche  I  have  made  on  my  shelf! 
A.'s  book  shall  prop  you  up,  B.'s  shall  cover  you, 

Here  's  C.  to  be  grave  with,  or  D.  to  be  gay, 
And  with  E.  on  each  side,  and  F.  right  over  you, 

Dry-rot  at  ease  till  the  Judgment-day  1 


306  IN  THREE  DATS. 

IN  THEEE  DAYS, 
i. 

So,  I  shall  see  her  in  three  days 
And  just  one  night,  but  nights  are  short, 
Then  two  long  hours,  and  that  is  morn. 
See  how  I  come,  unchanged,  unworn! 
Feel,  where  my  life  broke  off  from  thine, 
How  fresh  the  splinters  keep  and  fine, — 
Only  a  touch,  and  we  combine! 

ii. 

Too  long,  this  time  of  year,  the  days! 
But  nights,  at  least  the  nights  are  short. 
As  night  shows  where  her  one  moon  is, 
A  hand's-breadth  of  pure  light  and  bliss, 
So  life's  night  gives  my  lady  birth 
And  my  eyes  hold  her!     What  is  worth 
The  rest  of  heaven,  the  rest  of  earth? 

in. 

0  loaded  curls!  release  your  store 
Of  warmth  and  scent,  as  once  before 
The  tingling  hair  did,  lights  and  darks 
Outbreaking  into  fairy  sparks, 
When  under  curl  and  curl  I  pried 
After  the  warmth  and  scent  inside, 
Through  lights  and  darks  how  manifold — 
The  dark  inspired,  the  light  controlled, 
As  early  Art  embrowns  the  gold ! 

IV. 

What  great  fear,  should  one  say,  "Three  days, 
That  change  the  world,  might  change  as  well 
Your  fortune;  and  if  joy  delays, 
Be  happy  that  no  worse  befell!" 


TEE  LOST  MISTRESS.  307 

"What  small  fear,  if  another  says, 

"Three  days  and  one  short  night  beside 

May  throw  no  shadow  on  your  ways; 

But  years  must  teem  with  change  untried, 

With  chance  not  easily  defied, 

With  an  end  somewhere  undescried." 

No  fear ! — or,  if  a  fear  be  born 

This  minute,  fear  dies  out  in  scorn. 

Fear?    I  shall  see  her  in  three  days 

And  one  night,  now  the  nights  are  short, 

Then  just  two  hours,  and  that  is  morn ! 


THE  LOST  MISTRESS, 
i. 

ALL'S  over,  then :  does  truth  sound  bitter 

As  one  at  first  believes? 
Hark,  't  is  the  sparrows'  good-night  twitter 

About  your  cottage  eaves ! 

n. 

And  the  leaf-buds  on  the  vine  are  woolly, 

I  noticed  that  to-day; 
One  day  more  bursts  them  open  fully: 

You  know  the  red  turns  gray. 

in. 

To-morrow  we  meet  the  same  then,  dearest? 

May  I  take  your  hand  in  mine? 
Mere  friends  are  we, — well,  friends  the  merest 

Keep  much  that  1  resign. 


308  ONE  WA  Y  OF  LOVE. 

IV. 

Each  glance  of  the  eye  so  bright  and  black, 
Though  I  keep  with  heart's  endeavor, — 

Your  voice,  when  you  wish  the  snowdrops  back, 
Though  it  stay  in  my  soul  forever, — 

v. 

Yet  I  will  but  say  what  mere  friends  say, 

Or  only  a  thought  stronger; 
I  will  hold  your  hand  but  as  long  as  all  may, 

Or  so  very  little  longer ! 


ONE  WAY  OF  LOVE, 
i. 

ALL  June  I  bound  the  rose  in  sheaves. 
Now,  rose  by  rose,  I  strip  the  leaves 
And  strew  them  where  Pauline  may  pass. 
She  will  not  turn  aside?    Alas! 
Let  them  lie.     Suppose  they  die? 
The  chance  was  they  might  take  her  eye. 

ii. 

How  many  a  month  I  strove  to  suit 
These  stubborn  fingers  to  the  lute! 
To-day  I  venture  all  I  know. 
She  will  not  hear  my  music?     So! 
Break  the  string;  fold  music's  wing: 
Suppose  Pauline  had  bade  me  sing! 

in. 

My  whole  life  long  I  learned  to  love 
This  hour  my  utmost  art  I  prove 


RUDEL  TO  THE  LADY  OF  TRIPOLI.  309 

And  speak  my  passion — heaven  or  hell? 
She  will  not  give  me  heaven?    'T  is  well! 
Lose  who  may — I  still  can  say, 
Those  who  win  heaven,  blest  are  they! 


RUDEL  TO  THE  LADY  OF  TRIPOLI, 
i. 

I  KNOW  a  Mount,  the  gracious  Sun  perceives 

First,  when  he  visits,  last,  too,  when  he  leaves 

The  world;  and,  vainly  favored,  it  repays 

The  day-long  glory  of  his  steadfast  gaze 

By  no  change  of  its  large  calm  front  of  snow. 

And,  underneath  the  Mount,  a  Flower  I  know, 

He  cannot  have  perceived,  that  changes  ever 

At  his  approach;  and,  in  the  lost  endeavor 

To  live  his  life,  has  parted,  one  by  one, 

With  all  a  flower's  true  graces,  for  the  grace 

Of  being  but  a  foolish  mimic  sun, 

With  ray-like  florets  round  a  disk-like  face. 

Men  nobly  call  by  many  a  name  the  Mount 

As  over  many  a  land  of  theirs  its  large 

Calm  front  of  snow  like  a  triumphal  targe 

Is  reared,  and  still  with  old  names,  fresh  names  vie, 

Each  to  its  proper  praise  and  own  account : 

Men  call  the  Flower,  the  Sunflower,  sportively. 

n. 

0  Angel  of  the  East!  one,  one  gold  look 
Across  the  waters  to  this  twilight  nook, 
— The  far  sad  waters,  Angel,  to  this  nook! 


310  NUMPHOLEPT08. 

III. 

Dear  Pilgrim,  art  thon  for  the  East  indeed? 

Go! — saying  ever  as  thou  dost  proceed, 

That  I,  French  Eudel,  choose  for  my  device 

A  sunflower  outspread  like  a  sacrifice 

Before  its  idol.     See!     These  inexpert 

And  hurried  fingers  could  not  fail  to  hurt 

The  woven  picture;  't  is  woman's  skill 

Indeed;  but  nothing  baffled  me,  so,  ill 

Or  well,  the  work  is  finished.     Say,  men  feed 

On  songs  I  sing,  and  therefore  bask  the  bees 

On  my  flower's  breast  as  on  a  platform  broad: 

But,  as  the  flower's  concern  is  not  for  these 

But  solely  for  the  sun,  so  men  applaud 

In  vain  this  Rudel,  he  not  looking  here 

But  to  the  East — the  East!     Go,  say  this,  Pilgrim  dear! 


NUMPHOLEPTOS. 

STILL  you  stand,  still  you  listen,  still  you  smile! 

Still  melts  your  moonbeam  through  me,  white  a  while, 

Softening,  sweetening,  still  sweet  and  soft 

Increase  so  round  this  heart  of  mine,  that  oft 

I  could  believe  your  moonbeam-smile  has  past 

The  pallid  limit  and,  transformed  at  last, 

Lies,  sunlight  and  salvation — warms  the  soul 

It  sweetens,  softens!     Would  you  pass  that  goal, 

Gain  love's  birth  at  the  limit's  happier  verge, 

And,  where  an  iridescence  lurks,  but  urge 

The  hesitating  pallor  on  to  prime 

Of  dawn! — true  blood-streaked,  sun-warmth,  action-time, 

By  heart-pulse  ripened  to  a  ruddy  glow 

Of  gold  above  my  clay — I  scarce  should  know 


NUMPHOLEPTOS.  311 

From  gold's  self,  thus  suffused !    For  gold  means  love. 

What  means  the  sad  slow  silver  smile  above 

My  clay  but  pity,  pardon? — at  the  best, 

But  acquiescence  that  I  take  my  rest, 

Contented  to  be  clay,  while  in  your  heaven 

The  sun  reserves  love  for  the  Spirit-Seven 

Companioning  God's  throne  they  lamp  before, 

— Leaves  earth  a  mute  waste  only  wandered  o'er 

By  that  pale  soft  sweet  disempassioned  moon 

Which  smiles  me  slow  forgiveness!     Such,  the  boon 

I  beg?    Nay,  dear,  submit  to  this — just  this 

Supreme  endeavor!     As  my  lips  now  kiss 

Your  feet,  my  arms  convulse  your  shrouding  robe, 

My  eyes,  acquainted  with  the  dust,  dare  probe 

Your  eyes  above  for — what,  if  born,  would  blind 

Mine  with  redundant  bliss,  as  flash  may  find 

The  inert  nerve,  sting  awake  the  palsied  limb, 

Bid  with  life's  ecstasy  sense  overbrim 

And  suck  back  death  in  the  resurging  joy — 

So  grant  me — love,  whole,  sole,  without  alloy! 

Vainly !     The  promise  withers !     I  employ 

Lips,  arms,  eyes,  pray  the  prayer  which  finds  the  word, 

Make  the  appeal  which  must  be  felt,  not  heard, 

And  none  the  more  is  changed  your  calm  regard : 

Bather,  its  sweet  and  soft  grow  harsh  and  hard — 

Forbearance,  then  repulsion,  then  disdain. 

Avert  the  rest!     I  rise,  see! — make,  again 

Once  more,  the  old  departure  for  some  track 

Untried  yet  through  a  world  which  brings  me  back 

Ever  thus  fruitlessly  to  find  your  feet, 

To  fix  your  eyes,  to  pray  the  soft  and  sweet 

Which  smile  there — take  from  his  new  pilgrimage 

Your  outcast,  once  your  inmate,  and  assuage 

With  love — not  placid  pardon  now — his  thirst 

For  a  mere  drop  from  out  the  ocean  erst 


312  NUMPHOLEPTOS. 

He  drank  at !     Well,  the  quest  shall  be  renewed. 
Fear  nothing!     Though  I  linger,  unimbued 
With  any  drop,  my  lips  thus  close.     I  go! 
So  did  I  leave  you,  I  have  found  you  so, 
And  doubtlessly,  if  fated  to  return, 
So  shall  my  pleading  persevere  and  earn 
Pardon — not  love — in  that  same  smile,  I  learn, 
And  lose  the  meaning  of,  to  learn  once  more, 
Vainly ! 

What  fairy  track  do  I  explore? 
What  magic  hall  return  to,  like  the  gem 
Centuply-angled  o'er  a  diadem? 
You  dwell  there,  hearted;  from  your  midmost  home 
Eays  forth — through  that  fantastic  world  I  roam 
Ever — •from  centre  to  circumference, 
Shaft  upon  colored  shaft:  this  crimsons  thence, 
That  purples  out  its  precinct  through  the  waste. 
Surely  I  had  your  sanction  when  I  faced, 
Fared  forth  upon  that  untried  yellow,  ray 
Whence  I  retrack  my  steps?     They  end  to-day 
Where  they  began,  before  your  feet,  beneath 
Your  eyes,  your  smile:  the  blade  is  shut  in  sheath, 
Fire  quenched  in  flint;  irradiation,  late 
Triumphant  through  the  distance,  finds  its  fate, 
Merged  in  your  blank  pure  soul,  alike  the  source 
And  tomb  of  that  prismatic  glow :  divorce 
Absolute,  all-conclusive!     Forth  I  fared, 
Treading  the  lambent  flamelet:  little  cared 
If  now  its  flickering  took  the  topaz  tint, 
If  now  my  dull-caked  path  gave  sulphury  hint 
Of  subterranean  rage — no  stay  nor  stint 
To  yellow,  since  you  sanctioned  that  I  bathe, 
Burnish  me,  soul  and  body,  swim  and  swathe 
In  yellow  license.     Here  I  reek  suffused 
With  crocus,  saffron,  orange,  as  I  used 


NUMPHOLEPTOS.  313 

With  scarlet,  purple,  every  dye  o'  the  bow 

Born  of  the  storm-cloud.     As  before,  you  show 

Scarce  recognition,  no  approval,  some 

Mistrust,  more  wonder  at  a  man  become 

Monstrous  in  garb,  nay — flesh  disguised  as  well, 

Through  his  adventure.     Whatsoe'er  befell, 

I  followed,  wheresoe'er  it  wound,  that  vein 

You  authorized  should  leave  your  whiteness,  stain 

Earth's  sombre  stretch  beyond  your  midmost  place 

Of  vantage, — trode  that  tinct  whereof  the  trace 

On  garb  and  flesh  repel  you !     Yes,  I  plead 

Your  own  permission — your  command,  indeed, 

That  who  would  worthily  retain  the  love 

Must  share  the  knowledge  shrined  those  eyes  above, 

Go  boldly  on  adventure,  break  through  bounds 

0'  the  quintessential  whiteness  that  surrounds 

Your  feet,  obtain  experience  of  each  tinge 

That  bickers  forth  to  broaden  out,  impinge 

Plainer  his  foot  its  path  way,  all  distinct 

From  every  other.     Ah,  the  wonder,  linked 

With  fear,  as  exploration  manifests 

What  agency  it  was  first  tipped  the  crests 

Of  unnamed  wild-flower,  soon  protruding  grew 

Portentous  mid  the  sands,  as  when  his  hue 

Betrays  him  and  the  burrowing  snake  gleams  through ; 

Till,  last  .  .  .  but  why  parade  more  shame  and  pain? 

Are  not  the  proofs  upon  me?    Here  again 

I  pass  into  your  presence,  I  receive 

Your  smile  of  pity,  pardon,  and  I  leave  .  .  . 

No,  not  this  last  of  times  I  leave  you,  mute, 

Submitted  to  my  penance,  so  my  foot 

May  yet  again  adventure,  tread,  from  source 

To  issue,  one  more  ray  of  rays  which  course 

Each  other,  at  your  bidding,  from  the  sphere 

Silver  and  sweet,  their  birthplace,  down  that  drear 


314  NUMPHOLEPT08. 

Dark  of  the  world, — you  promise  shall  return 

Your  pilgrim  jewelled  as  with  drops  o'  the  urn 

The  rainbow  paints  from,  and  no  smatch  at  all 

Of  ghastliness  at  edge  of  some  cloud-pall 

Heaven  cowers  before,  as  earth  awaits  the  fall 

0'  the  bolt  and  flash  of  doom.     Who  trusts  your  word 

Tries  the  adventure:  and  returns — absurd 

As  frightful — in  that  sulphur-steeped  disguise 

Mocking  the  priestly  cloth-of-gold,  sole  prize 

The  arch-heretic  was  wont  to  bear  away 

Until  he  reached  the  burning.     No,  I  say: 

No  fresh  adventure !     No  more  seeking  love 

At  end  of  toil,  and  finding,  calm  above 

My  passion,  the  old  statuesque  regard, 

The  sad  petrific  smile! 

0  you — less  hard 

And  hateful  than  mistaken  and  obtuse 
Unreason  of  a  she-intelligence ! 
You  very  woman  with  the  pert  pretence 
To  match  the  male  achievement!     Like  enough! 
Ay,  you  were  easy  victors,  did  the  rough 
Straightway  efface  itself  to  smooth,  the  gruff 
Grind  down  and  grow  a  whisper, — did  man's  truth 
Subdue,  for  sake  of  chivalry  and  ruth, 
Its  rapier  edge  to  suit  the  bulrush-spear 
Womanly  falsehood  fights  with  !     0  that  ear 
All  fact  pricks  rudely,  that  thrice-superfine 
Femininity  of  sense,  with  right  divine 
To  waive  all  process,  take  result  stain-free 
From  out  the  very  muck  wherein  .  .  . 

Ah  me! 

The  true  slave's  querulous  outbreak!     All  the  rest 
Be  resignation !     Forth  at  your  behest 
I  fare.     Who  knows  but  this — the  crimson-quest — 
May  deepen  to  a  sunrise,  not  decay 
To  that  cold  sad  sweet  smile? — which  I  obey. 


THE  WORST  OF  IT.  315 

APPEAKANCES. 

t 

AND  so  you  found  that  poor  room  dull, 
Dark,  hardly  to  your  taste,  my  Dear? 

Its  features  seemed  unbeautiful: 

But  this  I  know — 't  was  there,  not  here, 

You  plighted  troth  to  me,  the  word 

Which — ask  that  poor  room  how  it  heard ! 

ii. 

And  this  rich  roo'm  obtains  your  praise 

Unqualified, — so  bright,  so  fair, 
So  all  whereat  perfection  stays? 

Ay,  but  remember — here,  not  there, 
The  other  word  was  spoken !     Ask 
This  rich  room  how  you  dropped  the  mask ! 


THE  WORST  OF  IT. 


WOULD  it  were  I  had  been  false,  not  you ! 

I  that  am  nothing,  not  you  that  are  all: 
I,  never  the  worse  for  a  touch  or  two 

On  my  speckled  hide;  not  you,  the  pride 
Of  the  day,  my  swan,  that  a  first  fleck's  fall 

On  her  wonder  of  white  must  unswan,  undo! 

n. 

I  had  dipped  in  life's  struggle  and,  out  again, 
Bore  specks  of  it  here,  there,  easy  to  see, 

When  I  found  my  swan  and  the  cure  was  plain; 
The  dull  turned  bright  as  I  caught  your  white 

On  my  bosom :  you  saved  me — saved  in  vain 
If  you  ruined  yourself,  and  all  through  me ! 


316  THE  WORST  OF  IT. 

m. 

Yes,  all  through  the  speckled  beast  I  am, 

Who  taught  you  to  stoop;  you  gave  me  yourself, 

And  bound  your  soul  by  the  vows  which  damn : 
Since  on  better  thought  you  break,  as  you  ought, 

Vows — words,  no  angel  set  down,  some  elf 
Mistook, — for  an  oath,  an  epigram! 

IV. 

Yes,  might  I  judge  you,  here  were  my  heart, 
And  a  hundred  its  like,  to  treat  as  you  pleased! 

I  choose  to  be  yours,  for  my  proper  part, 
Yours,  leave  me  or  take,  or  mar  or  make; 

If  I  acquiesce,  why  should  you  be  teased 

With  the  conscience-prick  and  the  memory-smart? 

v. 

But  what  will  God  say?    0  my  Sweet, 
Think,  and  be  sorry  you  did  this  thing! 

Though  earth  were  unworthy  to  feel  your  feet, 
There  's  a  heaven  above  may  deserve  ycur  love: 

Should  you  forfeit  heaven  for  a  snapt  gold  ring 
And  a  promise  broke,  were  it  just  or  meet? 

VI. 

And  I  to  have  tempted  you !    I,  who  tried 
Your  soul,  no  doubt,  till  it  sank!     Unwise, 

I  loved  and  was  loAvly,  loved  and  aspired, 

Loved,  grieving  or  glad,  till  I  made  you  mad, 

And  you  meant  to  have  hated  and  despised — 
Whereas,  you  deceived  me  nor  inquired ! 

VII. 

She,  ruined?     How?    No  heaven  for  her? 
Crowns  to  give,  and  none  for  the  brow 


THE  WORST  OF  IT. 


That  looked  like  marble  and  smelt  like  myrrh? 

Shall  the  robe  be  worn,  and  the  palm-branch  borne, 
And  she  go  graceless,  she  graced  now 

Beyond  all  saints,  as  themselves  aver? 

VIII. 

Hardly  !     That  must  be  understood  ! 

The  earth  is  your  place  of  penance,  then; 
And  what  will  it  prove?    I  desire  your  good, 

But,  plot  as  I  may,  I  can  find  no  way 
How  a  blow  should  fall,  such  as  falls  on  men, 

Nor  prove  too  much  for  your  womanhood. 

IX. 

It  will  come,  I  suspect,  at  the  end  of  life, 
When  you  walk  alone,  and  review  the  past; 

And  I,  who  so  long  shall  have  done  with  strife, 
And  journeyed  my  stage  and  earned  my  wage 

And  retired  as  was  right,  —  I  am  called  at  last 
When  the  Devil  stabs  you,  to  lend  the  knife. 

x. 

He  stabs  for  the  minute  of  trivial  wrong, 

Nor  the  other  hours  are  able  to  save, 
The  happy,  that  lasted  my  whole  life  long: 

For  a  promise  broke,  not  for  first  words  spoke, 
The  true,  the  only,  that  turn  my  grave 

To  a  blaze  of  joy  and  a  crash  of  song. 

XI. 

Witness  beforehand  !     Off  I  trip 

On  a  safe  path  gay  through  the  flowers  you  flung: 
My  very  name  made  great  by  your  lip, 

And  my  heart  aglow  with  the  good  I  know 
Of  a  perfect  year  when  we  both  were  young, 

And  I  tasted  the  angels'  fellowship. 


318  THE  WORST  OF  IT. 

XII. 

And  witness,  moreover  .  .  .  Ah,  but  wait! 

I  spy  the  loop  whence  an  arrow  shoots! 
It  may  be  for  yourself,  when  you  meditate, 

That  you  grieve — for  slain  ruth,  murdered  truth : 
"Though  falsehood  escape  in  the  end,  what  boots? 

How  truth  would  have  triumphed!" — you  sigh  too  late. 

XIII. 

Ay,  who  would  have  triumphed  like  you,  I  say! 

Well,  it  is  lost  now;  well,  you  must  bear, 
Abide  and  grow  fit  for  a  better  day. 

You  should  hardly  grudge,  could  I  be  your  judge! 
But  hush!     For  you,  can  be  no  despair: 

There  's  amends:  't  is  a  secret;  hope  and  pray! 

XIV. 

For  I  was  true  at  least — oh,  true  enough ! 

And,  Dear,  truth  is  not  as  good  as  it  seems! 
Commend  me  to  conscience!     Idle  stuff! 

Much  help  is  in  mine,  as  I  mope  and  pine, 
And  skulk  through  day,  and  scowl  in  my  dreams 

At  my  swan's  obtaining  the  crow's  rebuff. 

xv. 

Men  tell  me  of  truth  now — "False!"  I  cry: 

Of  beauty — "A  mask,  friend!     Look  beneath!" 

We  take  our  own  method,  the  Devil  and  I, 
With  pleasant  and  fair  and  wise  and  rare: 

And  the  best  we  wish  to  what  lives,  is — death ; 
Which  even  in  wishing,  perhaps  we  lie! 

XVI. 

Far  better  commit  a  fault  and  have  done— 
As  you,  Dear! — forever:  and  choose  the  pure, 


THE  WORST  OF  IT.  319 

And  look  where  the  healing  waters  run, 

And  strive  and  strain  to  be  good  again, 
And  a  place  in  the  other  world  insure, 

All  glass  and  gold,  with  God  for  its  sun. 

XVII. 

Misery!     What  shall  I  say  or  do? 

I  cannot  advise,  or,  at  least,  persuade. 
Most  like  you  are  glad  you  deceived  me — rue 

No  whit  of  the  wrong :  you  endured  too  long, 
Have  done  no  evil  and  want  no  aid, 

Will  live  the  old  life  out  and  chance  the  new. 

XVIII. 

And  your  sentence  is  written  all  the  same, 

And  I  can  do  nothing, — pray,  perhaps : 
But  somehow  the  world  pursues  its  game, — 

If  I  pray,  if  I  curse, — f or  better  or  worse : 
And  my  faith  is  torn  to  a  thousand  scraps, 

And  my  heart  feels  ice  while  my  words  breathe  flame. 

XIX. 

Dear,  I  look  from  my  hiding-place. 

Are  you  still  so  fair?    Have  you  still  the  eyes? 
Be  happy !     Add  but  the  other  grace, 

Be  good!     Why  want  what  the  angels  vaunt? 
I  knew  you  once:  but  in  Paradise 

If  we  meet  I  will  pass  nor  turn  my  face. 


320  TOO  LATE. 


TOO  LATE, 
i. 

HERE  was  I  with  my  arm  and  heart 

Andjarain,  all  yours  for  a  word,  a  want 
Put  into  a  look — just  a  look,  your  part, — 

While  mine,  to  repay  it  ...  vainest  vaunt, 
Were  the  woman,  that 's  dead,  alive  to  hear, 

Had  her  lover,  that  's  lost,  love's  proof  to  show! 
But  I  cannot  show  it;  you  cannot  speak 

From  the  churchyard  neither,  miles  removed, 
Though  I  feel  by  a  pulse  within  my  cheek, 

Which  stabs  and  stops,  that  the  woman  I  loved 
Needs  help  in  her  grave  and  finds  none  near, 

Wants  warmth  from  the  heart  which  sends  it — so! 

ii. 

Did  I  speak  once  angrily,  all  the  drear  days 

You  lived,  you  woman  I  loved  so  well, 
Who  married  the  other?     Blame  or  praise, 

Where  was  the  use  then?     Time  would  tell, 
And  the  end  declare  what  man  for  you, 

What  woman  for  me  was  the  choice  of  God. 
But   Edith  dead !  no  doubting  more ! 

I  used  to  sit  and  look  at  my  life 
As  it  rippled  and  ran  till,  right  before, 

A  great  stone  stopped  it:  oh,  the  strife 
Of  waves  at  the  stone  some  devil  threw 

In  my  life's  midcurrent,  thwarting  God! 

in. 

But  either  I  thought,  "They  may  churn  and  chide 
A  while, — my  waves  which  came  for  their  joy 

And  found  this  horrible  stone  full-tide: 
Yet  I  see  just  a  thread  escape,  deploy 


TOO  LATE.  321 

Through  the  evening-country,  silent  and  safe, 

And  it  suffers  no  more  till  it  finds  the  sea." 
Or  else  I  would  think,  "Perhaps  some  night 

When  new  things  happen,  a  meteor-ball 
May  slip  through  the  sky  in  a  line  of  light, 

And  earth  breathe  hard,  and  landmarks  fall, 
And  my  waves  no  longer  champ  nor  chafe, 

Since  a  stone  will  have  rolled  from  its  place:  let  be!" 

IV. 

But,  dead !     All  's  done  with :  wait  who  may, 

Watch  and  wear  and  wonder  who  will. 
Oh,  my  whole  life  that  ends  to-day! 

Oh,  my  soul's  sentence,  sounding  still, 
"The  woman  is  dead,  that  was  none  of  his; 

And  the  man,  that  was  none  of  hers,  may  go!" 
There  's  only  the  past  left:  worry  that! 

Wreak,  like  a  bull,  on  the  empty  coat, 
Rage,  its  late  wearer  is  laughing  at! 

Tear  the  collar  to  rags,  having  missed  his  throat; 
Strike  stupidly  on — "This,  this,  and  this, 

Where  I  would  that  a  bosom  received  the  blow!" 

v. 

I  ought  to  have  done  more:  once  my  speech 

And  once  your  answer,  and  there,  the  end, 
And  Edith  was  henceforth  out  of  reach ! 

Why,  men  do  more  to  deserve  a  friend, 
Be  rid  of  a  foe,  get  rich,  grow  wise, 

Nor,  folding  their  arms,  stare  fate  in  the  face. 
Why,  better  even  have  burst  like  a  thief 

And  borne  you  away  to  a  rock  for  us  two, 
In  a  moment's  horror,  bright,  bloody,  and  brief, 

Then  changed  to  myself  again — "I  slew 
Myself  in  that  moment;  a  ruffian  lies 

Somewhere:  your  slave,  see,  born  in  his  place!" 


322  TOO  LATE. 

VI. 

What  did  the  other  do?    You  be  judge! 

Look  at  us,  Edith !     Here  are  we  both ! 
Give  him  his  six  whole  years:  I  grudge 

None  of  the  life  with  you,  nay,  I  loathe 
Myself  that  I  grudged  his  start  in  advance 

Of  me  who  could  overtake  and  pass 
But,  as  if  he  loved  you !     No,  not  he, 

Nor  any  one  else  in  the  world,  't  is  plain: 
Who  ever  heard  that  another,  free 

As  I,  young,  prosperous,  sound,  and  sane, 
Poured  life  out,  proffered  it — "Half  a  glance 

Of  those  eyes  of  yours  and  I  drop  the  glass!" 

VII. 

Handsome,  were  you?     'T  is  more  than  they  held, 

More  than  they  said;  I  was  'ware  and  watched: 
I  was  the  'scapegrace,  this  rat  belled 

The  cat,  this  fool  got  his  whiskers  scratched : 
The  others?    No  head  that  was  turned,  no  heart 

Broken,  my  lady,  assure  yourself! 
Each  soon  made  his  mind  up;  so  and  so 

Married  a  dancer,  such  and  such 
Stole  his  friend's  wife,  stagnated  slow, 

Or  maundered,  unable  to  do  as  much, 
And  muttered  of  peace  where  he  had  no  part: 

While,  hid  in  the  closet,  laid  on  the  shelf, — • 

VIII. 

On  the  whole,  you  were  let  alone,  I  think! 

So,  you  looked  to  the  other,  who  acquiesced; 
My  rival  the  proud  man, — prize  your  pink 

Of  poets!     A  poet  he  was!     I 've  guessed: 
He  rhymed  you  his  rubbish  nobody  read, 

Loved  you  and  doved  you — did  not  I  laugh ! 


TOO  LATE.  333 

There  was  a  prize!    But  we  both  were  tried. 

0  heart  of  mine,  marked  broad  with  her  mark, 
Tekel,  found  wanting,  set  aside, 

Scorned !     See,  I  bleed  these  tears  in  the  dark 
Till  comfort  come  and  the  last  be  bled: 
He?     He  is  tagging  your  epitaph. 

IX. 

If  it  would  only  come  over  again ! 

— Time  to  be  patient  with  me,  and  probe 
This  heart  till  you  punctured  the  proper  vein, 

Just  to  learn  what  blood  is:  twitch  the  robe 
From  that  blank  lay-figure  your  fancy  draped, 

Prick  the  leathern  heart  till  the — verses  spirt! 
And  late  it  was  easy ;  late,  you  walked 

Where  a  friend  might  meet  you;  Edith's  name 
Arose  to  one's  lip  if  one  laughed  or  talked; 

If  I  heard  good  news,  you  heard  the  same; 
When  I  woke,  I  knew  that  your  breath  escaped; 

1  could  bide  my  time,  keep  alive,  alert. 

x. 

And  alive  I  shall  keep  and  long,  you  will  see! 

I  knew  a  man,  was  kicked  like  a  dog 
From  gutter  to  cesspool;  what  cared  he 

So  long  as  he  picked  from  the  filth  his  prog? 
He  saw  youth,  beauty,  and  genius  die, 

And  jollily  lived  to  his  hundredth  year. 
But  I  will  live  otherwise:  none  of  such  life! 

At  once  I  begin  as  I  mean  to  end. 
Go  on  with  the  world,  get  gold  in  its  strife, 

Give  your  spouse  the  slip,  and  betray  your  friend! 
There  are  two  who  decline,  a  woman  and  I, 

And  enjoy  our  death  in  the  darkness  here. 


324  BIFURCATION. 

XI. 

I  liked  that  way  you  had  with  your  curls 

Wound  to  a  ball  in  a  net  behind: 
Your  cheek  was  chaste  as  a  Quaker-girl's, 

And  your  mouth — there  was  never,  to  my  mind, 
Such  a  funny  mouth,  for  it  would  not  shut; 

And  the  dented  chin  too — what  a  chin! 
There  were  certain  ways  when  you  spoke,  some  words 

That  you  know  you  never  could  pronounce: 
You  were  thin,  however;  like  a  bird's 

Your  hand  seemed — some  would  say,  the  pounce 
Of  a  scaly-footed  hawk — all  but! 

The  world  was  right  when  it  called  you  thin. 

XII. 

But  I  turn  my  back  on  the  world :  I  take 

Your  hand,  and  kneel,  and  lay  to  my  lips. 
Bid  me  live,  Edith!     Let  me  slake 

Thirst  at  your  presence !     Fear  no  slips ! 
'T  is  your  slave  shall  pay,  while  his  soul  endures, 

Full  due,  love's  whole  debt,  summiim  jus. 
My  queen  shall  have  high  observance,  planned 

Courtship  made  perfect,  no  least  line 
Crossed  without  warrant.     There  you  stand, 

Warm  too,  and  white  too:  would  this  wine 
Had  washed  all  over  that  body  of  yours, 

Ere  I  drank  it,  and  you  down  with  it,  thus! 


BIFURCATION. 

WE  were  two  lovers;  let  me  lie  by  her, 
My  tomb  beside  her  tomb.     On  hers  inscribe — 
"I  loved  him;  but  my  reason  bade  prefer 
Duty  to  love,  reject  the  tempter's  bribe 


BIFURCATION.  325 

Of  rose  and  lily  when  each  path  diverged, 

And  either  I  must  pace  to  life's  far  end 

As  love  should  lead  me,  or,  as  duty  urged, 

Plod  the  worn  causeway  arm  in  arm  with  friend. 

So,  truth  turned  falsehood :  'How  I  loathe  a  flower, 

How  prize  the  pavement!'  still  caressed  his  ear — 

The  deafish  friend's — through  life's  day,  hour  by  hour, 

As  he  laughed  (coughing)  'Ay,  it  would  appear!' 

But  deep  within  my  heart  of  hearts  there  hid 

Ever  the  confidence,  amends  for  all, 

That  heaven  repairs  what  wrong  earth's  journey  did, 

When  love  from  life-long  exile  comes  at  call. 

Duty  and  love,  one  broadway,  were  the  best — 

Who  doubts?     But  one  or  other  was  to  choose. 

I  chose  the  darkling  half,  and  wait  the  rest 

In  that  new  world  where  light  and  darkness  fuse.'* 

Inscribe  on  mine — "I  loved  her:  love's  track  lay 

O'er  sand  and  pebble,  as  all  travellers  know. 

Duty  led  through  a  smiling  country,  gay 

With  greensward  where  the  rose  and  lily  blow. 

'Our  roads  are  diverse:  farewell,  love!'  said  she: 

"T  is  duty  I  abide  by:  homely  sward 

And  not  the  rock-rough  picturesque  for  me! 

Above,  where  both  roads  join,  I  wait  reward. 

Be  you  as  constant  to  the  path  whereon 

I  leave  you  planted !'     But  man  needs  must  move, 

Keep  moving — whither,  when  the  star  is  gone 

Whereby  he  steps  secure  nor  strays  from  love? 

No  stone  but  I  was  tripped  by,  stumbling-block 

But  brought  me  to  confusion.     Where  I  fell, 

There  I  lay  flat,  if  moss  disguised  the  rock: 

Thence,  if  flint  pierced,  I  rose  and  cried,  'All  's  well! 

Duty  be  mine  to  tread  in  that  high  sphere 

Where  love  from  duty  ne'er  disparts,  I  trust, 


326  A  LIKENESS. 

\ 

And  two  halves  make  that  whole,  whereof — since  here 
One  must  suffice  a  man — why,  this  one  must!'  ' 

Inscribe  each  tomb  thus:  then,  some  sage  acquaint 
The  simple — which  holds  sinner,  which  holds  saint! 


A  LIKENESS. 

SOME  people  hang  portraits  up 

In  a  room  where  they  dine  or  sup: 

And  the  wife  clinks  tea-things  under, 

And  her  cousin,  he  stirs  his  cup, 

Asks,  "Who  was  the  lady,  I  wonder?" — 

"  'T  is  a  daub  John  bought  at  a  sale/' 

Quoth  the  wife, — looks  black  as  thunder. 

"What  a  shade  beneath  her  nose! 

Snuff-taking,  I  suppose," — 

Adds  the  cousin,  while  John's  corns  ail. 

Or  else,  there  's  no  wife  in  the  case, 

But  the  portrait  's  queen  of  the  place, 

Alone  mid  the  other  spoils 

Of  youth, — masks,  gloves,  and  foils, 

And  pipe-sticks,  rose,  cherry-tree,  jasmine, 

And  the  long  whip,  the  tandem-lasher, 

And  the  cast  from  a  fist  ("not,  alas!  mine, 

But  my  master's,  the  Tipton  Slasher") 

And  the  cards  where  pistol-balls  mark  ace, 

And  a  satin  shoe  used  for  a  cigar-case, 

And  the  chamois-horns  ("shot  in  the  Chablais") 

And  prints — Rarey  drumming  on  Cruiser, 

And  Sayers,  our  champion,  the  bruiser, 

And  the  little  edition  of  Eabelais: 

Where  a  friend,  with  both  hands  in  his  pockets 

May  saunter  up  close  to  examine  it, 


A  LIKENESS.  327 

And  remark  a  good  deal  of  Jane  Lamb  in  it, 
"But  the  eyes  are  half  out  of  their  sockets; 
That  hair  's  not  so  bad,  where  the  gloss  is, 
But  they  've  made  the  girl's  nose  a  proboscis: 
Jane  Lamb,  that  we  danced  with  at  Vichy ! 
What,  is  not  she  Jane?    Then,  who  is  she?" 

All  that  I  own  is  a  print, 

An  etching,  a  mezzotint; 

'T  is  a  study,  a  fancy,  a  fiction, 

Yet  a  fact  (take  my  conviction), 

Because  it  has  more  than  a  hint 

Of  a  ceratin  face,  I  never 

Saw  elsewhere  touch  or  trace  of 

In  women  I  've  seen  the  face  of: 

Just  an  etching,  and,  so  far,  clever. 

I  keep  my  prints  an  imbroglio, 

Fifty  in  one  portfolio. 

"When  somebody  tries  my  claret, 

We  turn  round  chairs  to  the  fire, 

Chirp  over  days  in  a  garret, 

Chuckle  o'er  increase  of  salary, 

Taste  the  good  fruits  of  our  leisure, 

Talk  about  pencil  and  lyre, 

And  the  National  Portrait  Gallery: 

Then  I  exhibit  my  treasure. 

After  we  've  turned  over  twenty, 

And  the  debt  of  wonder  my  crony  owes 

Is  paid  to  my  Marc  Antonios, 

He  stops  me — "Festina  lente  ! 

What's  that  sweet  thing  there,  the  etching?" 

How  my  waistcoat  strings  want  stretching, 

How  my  cheeks  grow  red  as  tomatoes, 

How  my  heart  leaps!    But  hearts,  after  leaps,  ache, 


328  MA  T  AND  DEA  TH. 

"By  the  by,  you  must  take,  for  a  keepsake, 

That  other,  you  praised,  of  Volpato's." 

The  fool !  would  he  try  a  flight  farther  and  say — 

He  never  saw,  never  before  to-day, 

What  was  able  to  take  his  breath  away, 

A  face  to  lose  youth  for,  to  occupy  age 

With  the  dream  of,  meet  death  with, — why,  I  '11  not  engage 

But  that,  half  in  a  rapture  and  half  in  a  rage," 

I  should  toss  him  the  thing's  self — '"T  is  only  a  duplicate, 

A  thing  of  no  value!    Take  it,  I  supplicate!" 


MAY  AND  DEATH, 
i. 


I  WISH  that  when  you  died  last  May, 
Charles,  there  had  died  along  with  you 

Three  parts  of  spring's  delightful  things; 
Ay,  and  for  me,  the  fourth  part  too. 

n. 

A  foolish  thought,  and  worse,  perhaps! 

There  must  be  many  a  pair  of  friends 
Who,  arm  in  arm,  deserve  the  warm 

Moon-births  and  the  long  evening-ends. 

in. 

So,  for  their  sake,  be  May  still  May ! 

Let  their  new  time,  as  mine  of  old, 
Do  all  it  did  for  me:  I  bid 

Sweet  sights  and  sounds  throng  manifold. 

IV. 

Only,  one  little  sight,  one  plant, 
Woods  have  in  May,  that  starts  up  green 

Save  a  sole  streak  which,  so  to  speak, 
Is  spring's  blood,  spilt  its  leaves  between, 


A  FORGIVENESS.  329 


v. 


That,  they  might  spare;  a  certain  wood 
Might  miss  the  plant;  their  loss  were  small: 

But  I, — whene'er  the  leaf  grows  there, 
Its  drop  comes  from  my  heart,  that  's  all. 


A  FOEGIVENESS. 

I  AM  indeed  the  personage  you  know. 
As  for  my  wife, — what  happened  long  ago — 
You  have  a  right  to  question  me,  as  I 
Am  bound  to  answer. 

("Son,  a  fit  reply!" 
The  monk  half  spoke,  half  ground  through  his  clinched 

teeth, 
At  the  confessioH-grate  I  knelt  beneath.) 

Thus  then  all  happened,  Father!     Power  and  place 

I  had  as  still  I  have.     I  ran  life's  race, 

AVith  the  whole  world  to  see,  as  only  strains 

His  strength  some  athlete  whose  prodigious  gains 

Of  good  appal  him :  happy  to  excess, — 

Work  freely  done  should  balance  happiness 

Fully  enjoyed ;  and,  since  beneath  my  roof 

Housed  she  who  made  home  heaven,  in  heaven's  behoof 

I  went  forth  every  day,  and  all  day  long 

Worked  for  the  world.     Look,  how  the  laborer's  song 

Cheers  him !     Thus  sang  my  soul,  at  each  sharp  throe 

Of  laboring  flesh  and  blood — ''She  loves  me  so!" 

One  day,  perhaps  such  song  so  knit  the  nerve 

That  work  grew  play  and  vanished.     "I  deserve 

Haply  my  heaven  an  hour  before  the  time!" 

I  laughed,  as  silverly  the  c.lockhouse-chime 


330  ^  FORGIVENESS. 

Surprised  me  passing  through  the  postern  gate 
— Not  the  main  entry  where  the  menials  wait 
And  wonder  why  the  world's  affairs  allow 
The  master  sudden  leisure.     That  was  how 
I  took  the  private  garden-wav  for  once. 

Forth  from  the  alcove,  1  saw  start,  ensonce 
Himself  behind  the  porphyry  vase,  a  man. 

My  fancies  in  the  natural  order  ran: 

"A  spy, — perhaps  a  foe  in  ambuscade, — 

A  thief, — more  like,  a  sweetheart  of  some  maid 

Who  pitched  on  the  alcove  for  tryst  perhaps." 

"Stand  there!"    Ibid. 

Whereat  my  man  but  wraps 
His  face  the  closelier  with  uplifted  arm 
Whereon  the  cloak  lies,  strikes  in  blind  alarm 
This  and  that  pedestal  as, — stretch  and  stoop, — 
Now  in,  now  out  of  sight,  he  thrids  the  group 
Of  statues,  marble  god  and  goddess  ranged 
Each  side  the  pathway,  till  the  gate  'a  exchanged 
For  safety:  one  step  thence,  the  street,  you  know! 

Thus  far  I  followed  with  my  gaze.     Then,  slow, 
Near  on  admiringly,  I  breathed  again, 
And — back  to  that  last  fancy  of  the  train — 
"A  danger  risked  for  hope  of  just  a  word 
With — which  of  all  my  nest  may  be  the  bird 
This  poacher  coverts  for  her  plumage,  pray? 
Carmen?    Juana?     Carmen  seems  too  gay 
For  such  adventure,  while  Juana's  grave 
— WTould  scorn  the  folly.     I  applaud  the  knave! 
He  had  the  eye,  could  single  from  my  brood 
His  proper  fledgeling!" 


A  FORGIVENESS.  331 

As  I  turned,  there  stood 
In  face  of  me,  my  wife  stone-still  stone-white. 
Whether  one  bound  had  brought  her, — at  first  sight 
Of  what  she  judged  the  encounter,  sure  to  be 
Next  moment,  of  the  venturous  man  and  me, — 
Brought  her  to  clutch  and  keep  me  from  my  prey: 
Whether  impelled  because  her  death  no  day 
Could  come  so  absolutely  opportune 
As  now  at  joy's  height,  like  a  year  in  June 
Stayed  at  the  fall  of  its  first  ripened  rose; 
Or  whether  hungry  for  my  hate — who  knows? — 
Eager  to  end  an  irksome  lie,  and  taste 
Our  tingling  true  relation,  hate  embraced 
By  hate  one  naked  moment: — anyhow 
There  stone-still  stone-white  stood  my  wife,  but  now 
The  woman  who  made  heaven  within  my  house. 
Ay,  she  who  faced  me  was  my  very  spouse 
As  well  as  love — you  are  to  recollect! 

"Stay!"  she  said.     "Keep  at  least  one  soul  unspecked 

With  crime,  that  's  spotless  hitherto — your  own ! 

Kill  me  who  court  the  blessing,  who  alone 

Was,  am,  and  shall  be  guilty,  first  to  last! 

The  man  lay  helpless  in  the  toils  I  cast 

About  him,  helpless  as  the  statue  there 

Against  that  strangling  bell-flower's  bondage:  tear 

Away  and  tread  to  dust  the  parasite, 

But  do  the  passive  marble  no  despite! 

I  love  him  as  I  hate  you.     Kill  me!     Strike 

At  one  blow  both  infinitudes  alike 

Out  of  existence — hate  and  love!     Whence  love? 

That  's  safe  inside  my  heart,  nor  will  remove 

For  any  searching  of  your  steel,  I  think. 

Whence  hate?     The  secret  lay  on  lip,  at  brink 

Of  speech,  in  one  fierce  tremble  to  escape, 


332  ^  FORGIVENESS. 

At  every  form  wherein  your  love  took  shape, 
At  each  new  provocation  of  your  kiss. 
Kill  me!" 

We  went  in. 

Next  day  after  this 

I  felt  as  if  the  speech  might  come.     I  spoke — 
Easily,  after  all. 

"The  lifted  cloak 

Was  screen  sufficient:  I  concern  myself 
Hardly  with  laying  hands  on  who  for  pelf — 
Whate'er  the  ignoble  kind — may  prowl  and  brave 
Cuffing  and  kicking  proper  to  a  knave 
Detected  by  my  household's  vigilance. 
Enough  of  such !     As  for  my  love-romance — 
I,  like  our  good  Hidalgo,  rub  my  eyes 
And  wake  and  wonder  how  the  film  could  rise 
Which  changed  for  me  a  barber's  basin  straight 
Into — Mambrino's  helm?     I  hesitate 
Nowise  to  say — God's  sacramental  cup ! 
Why  should  I  blame  the  brass  which,  burnished  up, 
Will  blaze,  to  all  but  me,  as  good  as  gold? 
To  me — a  warning  I  was  overbold 
In  judging  metals.     The  Hidalgo  waked 
Only  to  die,  if  I  remember, — staked 
His  life  upon  the  basin's  worth,  and  lost: 
While  I  confess  torpidity  at  most 
In  here  and  there  a  limb;  but,  lame  and  halt, 
Still  should  I  work  on,  still  repair  my  fault 
Ere  I  took  rest  in  death, — no  fear  at  all! 
Now,  work — no  word  before  the  curtain  fall!" 

The  "curtain"?    That  of  death  on  life,  I  meant: 
My  "word"  permissible  in  death's  event, 


A  FORGIVENESS.  333 

Would  be — truth,  soul  to  soul;  for,  otherwise, 

Day  by  day,  three  years  long,  there  had  to  rise 

And,  night  by  night,  to  fall  upon  our  stage — 

Ours,  doomed  to  public  play  by  heritage — 

Another  curtain,  when  the  world,  perforce 

Our  critical  assembly,  in  due  course 

Came  and  went,  witnessing,  gave  praise  or  blame 

To  art-mimetic.     It  had  spoiled  the  game 

If,  suffered  to  set  foot  behind  our  scene, 

The  world  had  witnessed  hovr  stage-king  and  queen, 

Gallant  and  lady,  but  a  minute  since, 

Enarming  each  the  other,  would  evince 

No  sign  of  recognition  as  they  took 

His  way  and  her  way  to  whatever  nook 

Waited  them  in  the  darkness  either  side 

Of  that  bright  stage  where  lately  groom  and  bride 

Had  fired  the  audience  to  a  frenzy-fit 

Of  sympathetic  rapture — every  whit 

Earned  as  the  curtain  fell  on  her  and  me, 

— Actors.     Three  whole  years,  nothing  was  to  see 

But  calm  and  concord :  where  a  speech  was  due 

There  came  the  speech;  when  smiles  were  wanted  too 

Smiles  were  as  ready.     In  a  place  like  mine, 

Where  foreign  and  domestic  cares  combine, 

There  's  audience  every  day  and  all  day  long; 

But  finally  the  last  of  the  whole  throng 

Who  linger  lets  one  see  his  back.     For  her — 

Why,  liberty  and  liking:  I  aver, 

Liking  and  liberty!     For  me — I  breathed, 

Let  my  face  rest  from  every  wrinkle  wreathed 

Smile-like  about  the  mouth,  unlearned  my  task 

Of  personation  till  next  day  bade  mask, 

And  quietly  betook  me  from  that  world 

To  the  real  world,  not  pageant:  there  unfurled 

In  work,  its  wings,  my  soul,  the  fretted  power 


334  A  FORGIVENESS. 

Three  years  I  worked,  each  minute  of  each  hour 
Not  claimed  by  acting: — work  I  may  dispense 
With  talk  about,  since  work  in  evidence, 
Perhaps  in  history;  who  knows  or  cares? 

After  three  years,  this  way,  all  unawares, 

Out  acting  ended.     She  and  I,  at  close 

Of  a  loud  night-feast,  led,  between  two  rows 

Of  bending  male  and  female  loyalty, 

Our  lord  the  king  down  staircase,  while,  held  high 

At  arm's  length  did  the  twisted  tapers'  flare 

Herald  his  passage  from  our  palace  where 

Such  visiting  left  glory  evermore. 

Again  the  ascent  in  public,  till  at  door 

As  we  two  stood  by  the  saloon — now  blank 

And  disencumbered  of  its  guests — there  sank 

A  whisper  in  my  ear,  so  low  and  yet 

So  unmistakable! 

"I  half  forget 

The  chamber  you  repair  to,  and  I  want 
Occasion  for  one  sbort  word — if  you  grant 
That  grace — within  a  certain  room  you  called 
Our  'Study,'  for  you  wrote  there  while  I  scrawled 
Some  paper  full  of  faces  for  my  sport. 
That  room  I  can  remember.     Just  one  short 
Word  with  you  there,  for  the  remembrance'  sake!" 
"Follow  me  thither!"  I  replied. 

We  break 

The  gloom  a  little,  as  with  guiding  lamp 
I  lead  the  way,  leave  warmth  and  cheer,  by  damp, 
Blind,  disused,  serpentining  ways  afar 
From  where  the  habitable  chambers  are, — 
Ascend,  descend  stairs  tunnelled  through  the  stone,- 
Always  in  silence, — till  I  reach  the  lone 
Chamber  sepulchred  for  my  very  own 


A  FORGIVENESS.  335 

Out  of  the  palace-quarry.     When  a  boy, 

Here  was  my  fortress,  stronghold  from  annoy, 

Proof-positive  of  ownership;  in  youth 

I  garnered  up  my  gleanings  here — uncouth 

But  precious  relics  of  vain  hopes,  vain  fears; 

Finally,  this  became  in  after-years 

My  closet  of  intrenchment  to  withstand 

Invasion  of  the  foe  on  every  hand — 

The  multifarious  herd  in  bower  and  hall, 

State-room, — rooms  whatsoe'er  the  style,  which  call 

On  masters  to  be  mindful  that,  before 

Men,  they  must  look  like  men  and  something  more. 

Here, — when  our  lord  the  king's  bestowment  ceased 

To  deck  me  on  the  day  that,  golden-fleeced, 

I  touched  ambition's  height, — 't  was  here,  released 

From  glory  (always  symbolled  by  a  chain !) 

No  sooner  was  I  privileged  to  gain 

My  secret  domicile  than  glad  I  flung 

That  last  toy  on  the  table — gazed  where  hung 

On  hook  my  father's  gift,  the  arquebuss — • 

And  asked  myself  "Shall  I  envisage  thus 

The  new  prize  and  the  old  prize,  when  I  reach 

Another  year's  experience? — own  that  each 

Equalled  advantage — sportsman's — statesman's  tool? 

That  brought  me  down  an  eagle,  this — a  fool!" 

Into  which  room  on  entry,  I  set  down 

The  lamp,  and  turning  saw  whose  rustled  gown 

Had  told  me  my  wife  followed,  pace  for  pace. 

Each  of  us  looked  the  other  in  the  face. 

She  spoke.     "Since  I  could  die  now"  .  .  . 

(To  explain 

Why  that  first  struck  me,  know — not  once  again 
Since  the  adventure  at  the  porphyry's  edge 
Three  years  before,  which  sundered  like  a  wedge 


336  A  FORGIVENESS. 

Her  soul  from  mine, — though  daily,  smile  to  smile, 

We  stood  before  the  public, — all  the  while 

Not  once  had  I  distinguished,  in  that  face 

I  paid  observance  to,  the  faintest  trace 

Of  feature  more  than  requisite  for  eyes 

To  do  their  duty  by  and  recognize: 

So  did  I  force  mine  to  obey  my  will 

And  pry  no  farther.     There  exists  such  skill, — 

Those  know  who  need  it.     What  physician  shrinks 

From  needful  contact  with  a  corpse?     He  drinks 

No  plague  so  long  as  thirst  for  knowledge, — not 

An  idler  impulse, — prompts  inquiry.     What, 

And  will  you  disbelieve  in  power  to  bid 

Our  spirit  back  to  bounds,  as  though  we  chid 

A  child  from  scrutiny  that  's  just  and  right 

In  manhood?     Sense,  not  soul,  accomplished  sight, 

Keported  daily  she  it  was — not  how 

Nor  why  a  change  had  come  to  cheek  and  brow.) 

"Since  I  could  die  now  of  the  truth  concealed, 

Yet  dare  not,  must  not  die, — so  seems  revealed 

The  Virgin's  mind  to  me, — for  death  means  peace, 

Wherein  no  lawful  part  have  I,  whose  lease 

Of  life  and  punishment  the  truth  avowed 

May  haply  lengthen, — let  me  push  the  shroud 

Away,  that  steals  to  muffle  ere  is  just 

My  penance-fire  in  snow!     I  dare — I  must 

Live,  by  avowal  of  the  truth — this  truth — 

I  loved  you !     Thanks  for  the  fresh  serpent's  tooth 

That,  by  a  prompt  new  pang  more  exquisite 

Than  all  preceding  torture,  proves  me  right! 

I  loved  you  yet  I  lost  you !     May  I  go 

Burn  to  the  ashes,  now  my  shame  you  know?" 

I  think  there  never  was  such — how  express? — 
Horror  coquetting  with  voluptuousness, 


A  FORGIVENESS.  337 

As  in  those  arms  of  Eastern  workmanship — 
Yataghan,  kandjar,  things  that  rend  and  rip, 
Gash  rough,  slash  smooth,  help  hate  so  many  ways, 
Yet  ever  keep  a  beauty  that  betrays 
Love  still  at  work  with  the  artificer 
Throughout  his  quaint  devising.     Why  prefer, 
Except  for  love's  sake,  that  a  blade  should  writhe 
And  bicker  like  a  flame? — now  play  the  scythe 
As  if  some  broad  neck  tempted, — now  contract 
And  needle  off  into  a  fineness  lacked 
For  just  that  puncture  which  the  heart  demands? 
Then,  such  adornment!     Wherefore  need  our  hands 
Enclose  not  ivory  alone,  nor  gold 
Roughened  for  use,  but  jewels?     Nay,  behold! 
Fancy  my  favorite — which  I  seem  to  grasp 
While  I  describe  the  luxury.     No  asp 
Is  diapered  more  delicate  round  throat 
Than  this  below  the  handle!     These  denote 
— These  mazy  lines  meandering,  to  end 
Only  in  flesh  they  open — what  intend 
They  else  but  water-purlings — pale  contrast 
With  the  life-crimson  where  they  blend  at  last? 
And  mark  the  handle's  dim  pellucid  green, 
Carved,  the  hard  jadestone,  as  you  pinch  a  bean, 
Into  a  sort  of  parrot-bird !     He  pecks 
A  grape-bunch ;  his  two  eyes  are  ruby-specks 
Pure  from  the  mine:  seen  this  way, — glassy  blank, 
But  turn  them, — lo  the  inmost  fire,  that  shrank 
From  sparkling,  sends  a  red  dart  right  to  aim! 
Why  did  I  choose  such  toys?     Perhaps  the  game 
Of  peaceful  men  is  warlike,  just  as  men 
War-wearied  get  amusement  from  that  pen 
And  paper  we  grow  sick  of — statesfolk  tired 
Of  merely  (when  such  measures  are  required) 
Dealing  out  doom  to  people  by  three  words, 
A  signature  and  seal :  we  play  with  swords 


338  ^  FORGIVENESS. 

Suggestive  of  quick  process.     That  is  know 
I  came  to  like  the  toys  described  you  now, 
Store  of  which  glittered  on  the  walls  and  strewed 
The  table,  even,  while  my  wife  pursued 
Her  purpose  to  its  ending.     "Now  you  know 
This  shame,  my  three  years'  torture,  let  me  go, — 
Burn  to  the  very  ashes!     You — I  lost, 
Yet  you— I  loved!" 

The  thing  I  pity  most 
In  men  is — action  prompted  by  surprise 
Of  anger:  men?  nay,  bulls — whose  onset  lies 
At  instance  of  the  firework  and  the  goad! 
Once  the  foe  prostrate, — trampling  once  bestowed, — 
Prompt  follows  placability,  regret, 
Atonement.     Trust  me,  blood-warmth  never  yet 
Betokened  strong  will!     As  no  leap  of  pulse 
Pricked  me,  that  first  time,  so  did  none  convulse 
My  veins  at  this  occasion  for  resolve. 
Had  that  devolved  which  did  not  then  devolve 
Upon  me,  I  had  done — what  now  to  do 
Was  quietly  apparent. 

"Tell  me  who 
The  man  was,  crouching  by  the  porphyry  vase!" 

"No,  never!     All  was  folly  in  his  case, 

All  guilt  in  mine.     I  tempted,  he  complied." 

"And  yet  you  loved  me?" 

"Loved  you.     Double-dyed 
In  folly  and  in  guilt,  I  thought  you  gave 
Your  heart  and  soul  away  from  me  to  slave 
At  statecraft.     Since  my  right  in  you  seemed  lost, 
I  stung  myself  to  teach  you,  to  your  cost, 
What  you  rejected  could  be  prized  beyond 
Life,  heaven,  by  the  first  fool  I  threw  a  fond 
Look  on,  a  fatal  word  to." 


A  FORGIVENESS.  339 

"And  you  still 
Love  me?    Do  I  conjecture  well,  or  ill?" 

"Conjecture — well,  or  ill!     I  had  three  years 
To  spend  in  learning  you." 

"We  both  are  peers 

In  knowledge,  therefore :  since  three  years  are  spent 
Ere  thus  much  of  yourself  /  learn — who  went 
Back  to  the  house,  that  day,  and  brought  my  mind 
To  bear  upon  your  action :  uncombined 
Motive  from  motive,  till  the  dross,  deprived 
Of  every  purer  particle,  survived 
At  last  in  native  simple  hideousness, 
Utter  contemptibility,  nor  less 
Nor  more.     Contemptibility — exempt 
How  could  I,  from  its  proper  due — contempt? 
I  have  too  much  despised  you  to  divert 
My  life  from  its  set  course  by  help  or  hurt 
Of  your  all-despicable  life — perture 
The  calm  I  work  in,  by — men's  mouths  to  curb, 
Which  at  such  news  were  clamorous  enough — 
Men's  eyes  to  shut  before  my  broidered  stuff 
With  the  huge  hole  there,  my  emblazoned  wall 
Blank  where  a  scutcheon  hung, — by,  worse  than  all, 
Each  day's  procession,  my  paraded  life 
Bobbed  and  impoverished  through  the  wanting  wife 
— Now  that  my  life  (which  means — my  work)  was  grown 
Riches  indeed !     Once,  just  this  worth  alone 
Seemed  work  to  have,  that  profit  gained  thereby 
Of  good  and  praise  would — how  rewardingly! — 
Fall  at  your  feet, — a  crown  1  hoped  to  cast 
Before  your  love,  my  love  should  crown  at  last. 
No  love  remaining  to  cast  crown  before, 
My  loved  stopped  work  now :  but  contempt  the  more 


340  ^  FORGIVENESS. 

Impelled  me  task  as  ever  head  and  hand, 

Because  the  very  fiends  weave  ropes  of  sand 

Eather  than  taste  pure  hell  in  idleness. 

Therefore  I  kept  my  memory  down  by  stress 

Of  daily  work  I  had  no  mind  to  stay 

For  the  world's  wonder  at  the  wife  away. 

Oh,  it  was  easy  all  of  it,  believe, 

For  I  despised  you !     But  your  words  retrieve 

Importantly  the  past.     Ko  hate  assumed 

The  mask  of  love  at  any  time!     There  gloomed 

A  moment  when  love  took  hate's  semblance,  urged 

By  causes  you  declare;  but  love's  self  purged 

Away  a  fancied  Avrong  I  did  both  loves 

— Yours  and  my  own :  by  no  hate's  help,  it  proves; 

Purgation  was  attempted.     Then,  you  rise 

High  by  how  many  a  grade!     I  did  despise — 

I  do  but  hate  you.     Let  hate's  punishment 

Eeplace  contempt's!     First  step  to  which  ascent — 

Write  clown  your  own  words  I  reutter  you ! 

'/  loved  my  husband  and  I  hated — who 

He  was,  I  took  up  as  my  first  chance,  mere 

Mud-ball  to  fling  and  make  love  foul  with  /'     Here 

Lies  paper!" 

"Would  my  blood  for  ink  suffice!" 

"It  may:  this  minion  from  a  land  of  spice, 
Silk,  feather — every  bird  of  jewelled  breast — 
This  poniard's  beauty,  ne'er  so  lightly  prest 
Above  your  heart  there."  .  .  . 

"Thus?" 

"It  flows,  I  see. 
Dip  there  the  point  and  write!" 

"Dictate  to  me! 
Nay,  I  remember." 


CENCIAJA.  341 

And  she  wrote  the  words. 

I  read  them.     Then — "Since  love,  in  you,  affords 
License  for  hate,  in  me,  to  quench  (I  say) 
Contempt — why,  hate  itself  has  passed  away 
In  vengeance — foreign  to  contempt.     Depart 
Peacefully  to  that  death  which  Eastern  art 
Imbued  this  weapon  with,  if  tales  be  true! 
Love  will  succeed  to  hate.     I  pardon  you — 
Dead  in  our  chamber!" 

True  as  truth  the  tale. 

She  died  ere  morning;  then,  I  saw  how  pale 
Her  cheek  was  ere  it  wore  day's  paint-disguise. 
And  what  a  hollow  darkened  'neath  her  eyes, 
Now  that  I  used  my  own.     She  sleeps  as  erst 
Beloved,  in  this  your  church:  ay,  yours! 

Immersed 

In  thought  so  deeply,  Father?     Sad,  perhaps? 
For  whose  sake,  hers  or  mine  or  his  who  wraps 
— Still  plain  I  seem  to  see ! — about  his  head 
The  idle  cloak, — about  his  heart  (instead 
Of  cuirass)  some  fond  hope  he  may  elude 
My  vengeance  in  the  cloister's  solitude? 
Hardly,  I  think !     As  little  helped  his  brow 
The  cloak  then,  Father — as  your  grate  helps  now! 


CENCIAJA. 

Ogni  cencio  vuol  entrare  in  ~bucato. — Italian  Proverb. 

MAY  I  print,  Shelley,  how  it  came  to  pass 
That  when  your  Beatrice  seemed — by  lapse 
Of  many  a  long  month  since  her  sentence  fell — 
Assured  of  pardon  for  the  parricide, — 
By  intercession  of  stanch  friends,  or,  say, 


342  CENCTAJA. 

By  certain  pricks  of  conscience  in  the  Pope, 

Conniver  at  Francesco  Cenci's  guilt, — 

Suddenly  all  things  changed,  and  Clement  grew 

"Stern,"  as  you  state,  "nor  to  be  moved  nor  bent, 

But  said  these  three  words  coldly,  'She  must  die;' 

Subjoining  'Pardon  ?     Paolo  Santa  Croce 

Murdered  his  mother  also  yestereve. 

And  lie  is  fled:  she  shall  not  flee,  at  least  /'  " 

— So,  to  the  letter,  sentence  was  fulfilled? 

Shelley,  may  I  condense  verbosity 

That  lies  before  me,  into  some  few  words 

Of  English,  and  illustrate  your  superb 

Achievement  by  a  rescued  anecdote, 

No  great  things,  only  new  and  true  beside? 

As  if  some  mere  familiar  of  a  house 

Should  venture  to  accost  the  group  at  gaze 

Before  its  Titian,  famed  the  wide  world  through, 

And  supplement  such  pictured  masterpiece 

By  whisper  "Searching  in  the  archives  here, 

I  found  the  reason  of  the  Lady's  fate, 

And  how  by  accident  it  came  to  pass 

She  wears  the  halo  and  displays  the  palm: 

Who,  haply,  else  had  never  suffered — no, 

Nor  graced  our  gallery,  by  consequence." 

Who  loved  the  work  would  like  the  little  news: 

Who  lauds  your  poem  lends  an  ear  to  me 

Eelating  how  the  penalty  was  paid 

By  one  Marchese  dell'  Oriolo,  called 

Onofrio  Santa  Croce  otherwise, 

For  his  complicity  in  matricide 

With  Paolo  his  own  brother, — he  whose  crime 

And  flight  induced  "those  three  words — She  must  die." 

Thus  I  unroll  you  then  the  manuscript. 

"God's  justice" — (of  the  multiplicity 
Of  such  communications  extant  still, 


CENCIAJA.  343 

Recording,  each,  injustice  done  by  God 
In  person  of  his  Vicar-upon-earth, 
Scarce  one  but  leads  off  to  the  self-same  tune) — 
''God's  justice,  tardy  though  it  prove  perchance, 
Eests  never  on  the  track  until  it  reach 
Delinquency.     In  proof  I  cite  the  case 
Of  Paolo  Santa  Oroce." 

Many  times 

The  youngster, — having  been  importunate 
That  Marchesine  Costanza,  who  remained 
His  widowed  mother,  should  supplant  the  heir 
Her  elder  son,  and  substitute  himself 
In  sole  possession  of  her  faculty, — 
And  meeting  just  as  often  with  rebuff, — 
Blinded  by  so  exorbitant  a  lust 
Of  gold,  the  youngster  straightway  tasked  his  wits, 
Casting  about  to  kill  the  lady — thus. 

He  first,  to  cover  his  iniquity, 
Writes  to  Onofrio  Santa  Croce,  then 
Authoritative  lord,  acquainting  him 
Their  mother  was  contamination — wrought 
Like  hell-fire  in  the  beauty  of  their  House 
By  dissoluteness  and  abandonment 
Of  soul  and  body  to  impure  delight. 
Moreover,  since  she  suffered  from  disease, 
Those  symptoms  which  her  death  made  manifest 
Hydroptic,  he  affirmed  were  fruits  of  sin 
About  to  bring  confusion  and  disgrace 
Upon  the  ancient  lineage  and  high  fame 
0'  the  family,  when  published.     Duty-bound, 
He  asked  his  brother — what  a  son  should  do? 

Which  when  Marchese  dell'  Oriolo  heard 
By  letter,  being  absent  at  his  land 


344  CENCIAJA. 

Oriolo,  he  made  answer,  this,  no  morer 
"It  must  behoove  a  son, — things  haply  so,— 
To  act  as  honor  prompts  a  cavalier 
And  son,  perform  his  duty  to  all  three, 
Mother  and  brothers" — here  advice  broke  off. 

By  which  advice  informed  and  fortified 
As  he  professed  himself — as  bound  by  birth 
To  hear  God's  voice  in  primogeniture — 
Paolo,  who  kept  his  mother  company 
In  her  domain  Subiaco,  straightway  dared 
His  whole  enormity  of  enterprise 
And,  falling  on  her,  stabbed  the  lady  dead; 
Whose  death  demonstrated  her  innocence, 
And  happened, — by  the  way, — since  Jesus  Christ 
Died  to  save  man,  just  sixteen  hundred  years. 
Costanza  was  of  aspect  beautiful 
Exceedingly,  and  seemed,  although  in  age 
Sixty  about,  to  far  surpass  her  peers 
The  coetaneous  dames,  in  youth  and  grace. 

Done  the  misdeed,  its  author  takes  to  flight, 
Foiling  thereby  the  justice  of  the  world: 
Not  God's  however, — God,  be  sure,  knows  well 
The  way  to  clutch  a  culprit.     Witness  here! 
The  present  sinner,  when  he  least  expects, 
Snug-cornered  somewhere  i'  the  Basilicate, 
Stumbles  upon  his  death  by  violence. 
A  man  of  blood  assaults  the  man  of  blood 
And  slays  him  somehow.     This  was  afterward: 
Enough,  he  promptly  met  with  his  deserts, 
And,  ending  thus,  permits  we  end  with  him, 
And  push  forthwith  to  this  important  point — 
His  matricide  fell  out,  of  all  the  days, 
Precisely  when  the  law  procedure  closed 
Eespecting  Count  Francesco  Cenci's  death 
Chargeable  on  his  daughter,  sons,  and  wife. 


CENCIAJA.  345 

"Thus  patricide  was  matched  with  matricide," 
A  poet  not  inelegantly  rhymed : 
Nay,  fratricide — those  Princes  Massimi! — 
Which  so  disturbed  the  spirit  of  the  Pope 
That  all  the  likelihood  Rome  entertained 
Of  Beatrice's  pardon  vanished  straight, 
And  she  endured  the  piteous  death. 

Now  see 

The  sequel — what  effect  commandment  had 
For  strict  inquiry  into  this  last  case, 
When  Cardinal  Aldobrandini  (great 
His  efficacy — nephew  to  the  Pope!) 
Was  bidden  crush — ay,  though  his  very  hand 
Got  soiled  i'  the  act — crime  spawning  everywhere! 
Because,  when  all  endeavor  had  been  used 
To  catch  the  aforesaid  Paolo,  all  in  vain — 
"Make  perquisition,"  quoth  our  Eminence, 
"Throughout  his  now  deserted  domicile! 
Eansack  the  palace,  roof,  and  floor,  to  find 
If  haply  any  scrap  of  writing,  hid 
In  nook  or  corner,  may  convict — who  knows?— 
Brother  Onofrio  of  intelligence 
With  brother  Paolo,  as  in  brotherhood 
Is  but  too  likely :  crime  spawns  everywhere !" 

And,  every  cranny  searched  accordingly, 
There  comes  to  light — 0  lynx-eyed  Cardinal ! — 
Onofrio's  unconsidered  writing-scrap, 
The  letter  in  reply  to  Paolo's  prayer, 
The  word  of  counsel  that — things  proving  so, 
Paolo  should  act  the  proper  knightly  part, 
And  do  as  was  incumbent  on  a  son, 
A  brother — and  a  man  of  birth,  be  sure! 

Whereat  immediately  the  officers 
Proceeded  to^arrest  Onofrio — found 


346  CENUIAJA. 

At  foot-ball,  child's  play,  unaware  of  harm, 
Safe  with  his  friends,  the  Orsini,  at  their  seat 
Monte  Giordano;  as  he  left  the  house 
He  came  upon  the  watch  in  wait  for  him 
Set  by  the  Barigel, — was  caught  and  caged. 

News  of  which  capture  being,  that  same  hour, ' 
Conveyed  to  Eome,  forthwith  our  Eminence 
Commands  Taverna,  Governor  and  Judge, 
To  have  the  process  in  especial  care, 
Be,  first  to  last,  not  only  president 
In  person,  but  inquisitor  as  well, 
Nor  trust  the  by-work  to  a  substitute: 
Bids  him  not,  squeamish,  keep  the  bench,  but  scrub 
The  floor  of  Justice,  so  to  speak, — go  try 
His  best  in  prison  with  the  criminal; 
Promising,  as  reward  for  by-work  done 
Fairly  on  all-fours,  that,  success  obtained 
And  crime  avowed,  or  such  connivency 
With  crime  as  should  procure  a  decent  death — 
Himself  will  humbly  beg — which  means,  procure — 
The  Hat  and  Purple  from  his  relative 
The  Pope,  and  so  repay  a  diligence 
Which,  meritorious  in  the  Cenci-case, 
Mounts  plainly  here  to  Purple  and  the  Hat. 

Whereupon  did  my  lord  the  Governor 
So  masterfully  exercise  the  task 
Enjoined  him,  that  he,  day  by  day,  and  week 
By  week,  and  month  by  month,  from  first  to  last 
Deserved  the  prize:  now,  punctual  at  his  place, 
Played  Judge,  and  now,  assiduous  at  his  post, 
Inquisitor — pressed  cushion  and  scoured  plank, 
Early  and  late.     Noon's  fervor  and  night's  chill, 
Naught  moved  whom  morn  would,  purpling,  make  amends! 
So  that  observers  laughed  as,  many  a  day, 


cmCIAJA.  347 

He  left  home,  in  July  when  day  is  flame, 

Posted  to  Tordinona-prison,  plunged 

Into  the  vault  where  daylong  night  is  ice, 

There  passed  his  eight  hours  on  a  stretch,  content, 

Examining  Onof rio :  all  the  stress 

Of  all  examination  steadily 

Converging  into  one  pin-point, — he  pushed 

Tentative  now  of  head  and  now  of  heart. 

As  when  the  nut-hatch  taps  and  tries  the  nut 

This  side  and  that  side  till  the  kernel  sounds, — 

So  did  he  press  the  sole  and  single  point 

— What  was  the  very  meaning  of  the  phrase 

"Do  what  beseems  an  honored  cavalier?" 

"Which  one  persistent  question-torture, — plied 
Day  by  day,  week  by  week,  and  month  by  month, 
Morn,  noon,  and  night, — fatigued  away  a  mind 
Grown  imbecile  by  darkness,  solitude, 
And  one  vivacious  memory  gnawing  there 
As  when  a  corpse  is  coffined  with  a  snake: 
— Fatigued  Onofrio  into  what  might  seem 
Admission  that  perchance  his  judgment  groped 
So  blindly,  feeling  for  an  issue — aught 
With  semblance  of  an  issue  from  the  toils 
Cast  of  a  sudden  round  feet  late  so  free, — 
He  possibly  might  have  envisaged,  scarce 
Recoiled  from — even  were  the  issue  death 
— Even  her  death  whose  life  .was  death  and  worse! 
Always  provided  that  the  charge  of  crime, 
Each  jot  and  tittle  of  the  charge  were  true. 
In  such  a  sense,  belike,  he  might  advise 
His  brother  to  expurgate  crime  with  .  .  .  well, 
With  blood,  if  blood  must  follow  on  "the  course 
Taken  as  might  beseem  a  cavalier." 


348  CBNCIAJA. 

"Whereupon  process  ended,  and  report 
Was  made  without  a  minute  of  delay 
To  Clement,  who,  because  of  those  two  crimes 
0'  the  Massimi  and  Cenci  flagrant  late, 
Must  needs  impatiently  desire  result. 

Eesnlt  obtained,  he  bade  the  Governor 
Summon  the  Congregation  and  despatch. 
Summons  made,  sentence  passed  accordingly 
— Death  by  beheading.     When  his  death-decree 
Was  intimated  to  Onofrio,  all 
Man  could  do — that  did  he  to  save  himself. 
'T  was  much,  the  having  gained  for  his  defence 
The  Advocate  o'  the  Poor,  with  natural  help 
Of  many  noble  friendly  persons  fain 
To  disengage  a  man  of  family, 
So  young  too,  from  his  grim  entanglement. 
But  Cardinal  Aldobrandini  ruled 
There  must  be  no  diversion  of  the  law. 
Justice  is  justice,  and  the  magistrate 
Bears  not  the  sword  in  vain.     Who  sins  must  die. 

So,  the  Marchese  had  his  head  cut  off 
In  Place  Saint  Angelo  beside  the  Bridge, 
With  Kome  to  see,  a  concourse  infinite; 
Where  magnanimity  demonstrating 
Adequate  to  his  birth  and  breed, — poor  boy! — 
He  made  the  people  the  accustomed  speech, 
Exhorted  them  to  true  faith,  honest  works, 
And  special  good  behavior  as  regards 
A  parent  of  no  matter  what  the  sex, 
Bidding  each  son  take  warning  from  himself. 
Truly,  it  was  considered  in  the  boy 
Stark  staring  lunacy,  no  less,  to  snap 
So  plain  a  bait,  be  hooked  and  hauled  ashore 
By  such  an  angler  as  the  Cardinal ! 
Why  make  confession  of  his  privity 


CENCIAJA.  349 

To  Paolo's  enterprise?    Mere  sealing  lips — 

Or,  better,  saying,  "When  I  counselled  him 

'To  do  as  might  beseem  a  cavalier,' 

What  could  I  mean  but,  'Hide  our  parent' s  shame 

As  Christian  ought,  by  aid  of  Holy  Church! 

Bury  it  in  a  convent — ay,  beneath 

Enough  dotation  to  prevent  its  ghost 

From  troubling  earth !'  '      Mere  saying  thus, — 't  is  plain, 

Not  only  were  his  life  the  recompense, 

But  he  had  manifestly  proved  himself 

True  Christian,  and  in  lieu  of  punishment 

Been  praised  of  all  men ! — So  the  populace. 

Anyhow,  when  the  Pope  made  promise  good 
(That  of  Aldobrandini,  near  and  dear) 
And  gave  Taverna,  who  had  toiled  so  much, 
A  cardinal's  equipment,  some  such  word 
As  this  from  mouth  to  ear  went  saucily: 
"Taverna's  cap  is  dyed  in  what  he  drew 
From  Santa  Croce's  veins!"     So  joked  the  world. 

I  add:  Onofrio  left  one  child  behind, 
A  daughter  named  Valeria,  dowered  with  grace 
Abundantly  of  soul  and  body,  doomed 
To  life  the  shorter  for  her  father's  fate. 
By  death  of  her,  the  Marquisate  returned 
To  that  Orsini  House  from  whence  it  came: 
Oriolo  having  passed  as  donative 
To  Santa  Croce  from  their  ancestors. 

And  no  word  more?    By  all  means!    Would  yon  know 
The  authoritative  answer,  when  folks  urged 
"What  made  Aldobrandini,  hound-like  stanch, 
Hunt  out  of  life  a  harmless  simpleton?" 
The  answer  was — "Hatred  implacable, 
By  reason  they  were  rivals  in  their  love." 


350  PORPBYR1A  >S  LO  VER. 

The  Cardinal's  desire  was  to  a  dame 

Whose  favor  was  Onofrio's.     Pricked  with  pride 

The  simpleton  must  ostentatiously 

Display  a  ring,  the  Cardinal's  love-gift, 

Given  to  Onofrio  as  the  lady's  gage; 

Which  ring  on  finger,  as  he  put  forth  hand 

To  draw  a  tapestry,  the  Cardinal 

Saw  and  knew,  gift  and  owner,  old  and  young; 

Whereon  a  fury  entered  him — the  fire 

He  quenched  with  what  could  quench  fire  only — blood. 

Nay,  more:  "there  want  not  who  affirm  to  boot, 

The  unwise  boy,  a  certain  festal  eve, 

Feigned  ignorance  of  who  the  wight  might  be 

That  pressed  too  closely  on  him  with  a  crowd. 

He  struck  the  Cardinal  a  blow:  and  then, 

To  put  a  face  upon  the  incident, 

Dared  next  day,  smug  as  ever,  go  pay  court 

I'  the  Cardinal's  ante-chamber.     Mark  and  mend, 

Ye  youth,  by  this  example  how  may  greed 

Vainglorious  operate  in  worldly  souls!" 

So  ends  the  chronicler,  beginning  with 
"God's  justice,  tardy  though  it  prove  perchance, 
Bests  never  till  it  reach  delinquency." 
Ay,  or  how  otherwise  had  come  to  pass 
That  Victor  rules,  this  present  year,  in  Rome? 


PORPHYRIA'S  LOVER, 
i. 

THE  rain  set  early  in  to-night, 
The  sullen  wind  was  soon  awake, 

It  tore  the  elm-tops  down  for  spite, 
And  did  its  worst  to  vex  the  lake, 

I  listened  with  heart  fit  to  break. 


PORP  SYRIA  'S  LOVER.  351 

II. 

When  glided  in  Porphyria;  straight 
She  shut  the  cold  out  and  the  storm, 

And  kneeled,  and  made  the  cheerless  grate 
Blaze  up,  and  all  the  cottage  warm; 

Which  done,  she  rose,  and  from  her  form 

in. 

Withdrew  the  dripping  cloak  and  shawl, 
And  laid  her  soiled  gloves  by,  untied 

Her  hat  and  let  the  damp  hair  fall, 
And,  last,  she  sat  down  by  my  side 

And  called  me.     When  no  voice  replied, 

IV. 

She  put  my  arm  about  her  waist, 
And  made  her  smooth  white  shoulder  bare, 

And  all  her  yellow  hair  displaced, 

And,  stooping,  made  my  cheek  lie  there, 

And  spread,  o'er  all,  her  yellow  hair, — 

v. 

Murmuring  how  she  loved  me — she 
Too  weak,  for  all  her  heart's  endeavor, 

To  set  its  struggling  passion  free 
From  pride,  and  vainer  ties  dissever, 

And  give  herself  to  me  forever. 

VI. 

But  passion  sometimes  would  prevail, 
Nor  could  to-night's  gay  feast  restrain 

A  sudden  thought  of  one  so  pale 
For  lore  of  her,  and  all  in  vain: 

So,  she  was  come  through  wind  and  rain. 


352  PORPE7RIA  '8  LO  VER 


VII. 


Be  sure  I  looked  up  at  her  eyes 
Happy  and  proud :  at  last  I  knew 

Porphyria  worshipped  me;  surprise 
Made  my  heart  swell,  and  still  it  grew 

While  I  debated  what  to  do. 


VIII. 

That  moment  she  was  mine,  mine  fairv 
Perfectly  pure  and  good :  I  found 

A  thing  to  do,  and  all  her  hair 
In  one  long  yellow  string  I  wound 

Three  times  her  little  throat  around, 

IX. 

And  strangled  her.     No  pain  felt  she; 

I  am  quite  sure  she  felt  no  pain. 
As  a  shut  bud  that  holds  a  bee, 

I  warily  oped  her  lids :  again 
Laughed  the  blue  eyes  without  a  stain. 

x. 

And  I  untightened  next  the  tress 

About  her  neck;  her  cheek  once  more 

Blushed  bright  beneath  my  burning  kiss: 
I  propped  her  head  up  as  before. 

Only,  this  time  my  shoulder  bore 

XI. 

Her  head,  which  droops  upon  it  still: 

The  smiling  rosy  little  head, 
So  glad  it  has  its  utmost  will, 

That  all  it  scorned  at  once  is  fled, 
And  I,  its  love,  am  gained  instead! 


ON  THE  PRIVILEGE  OF  B  URIAL.  353 

XII. 

Porphyria's  love:  she  guessed  not  how 
Her  darling  one  wish  would  be  heard. 

And  thus  we  sit  together  now. 

And  all  night  long  we  have  not  stirred, 

And  yet  God  has  not  said  a  word ! 


FILIPPO  BALDINUCCI  ON  THE  PRIVILEGE  OP 
BUKIAL. 

A  Reminiscence  <^A.D.  1676. 


No,  boy,  we  must  not  (so  began 

My  Uncle — he  's  with  God  long  since— 
A-petting  me,  the  good  old  man !) 

We  must  not  (and  he  seemed  to  wince, 
And  lose  that  laugh  whereto  had  grown 

His  chuckle  at  my  piece  of  news, 
How  cleverly  I  aimed  my  stone) 

I  fear  we  must  not  pelt  the  Jews! 

n. 

When  I  was  young  indeed, — ah,  faith 

Was  young  and  strong  in  Florence  too! 
We  Christians  never  dreamed  of  scathe 

Because  we  cursed  or  kicked  the  crew. 
But  now — well,  well!     The  olive-crops 

Weighed  double  then,  and  Arno's  pranks 
Would  always  spare  religious  shops 

Whenever  he  o'erflowed  his  banks! 


354  ON  THE  PR  IVILEO  E  OF  B  URIAL. 

III. 

I  '11  tell  you  (and  his  eye  regained 

Its  twinkle)  tell  you  something  choice! 
Something  may  help  you  keep  unstained 

Your  honest  zeal  to  stop  the  voice 
Of  unbelief  with  stone-throw — rspite 

Of  laws,  which  modern  fools  enact, 
That  we  must  suffer  Jews  in  sight 

Go  wholly  unmolested !    Fact! 

IV. 

There  was,  then,  in  my  youth,  and  yet 

Is,  by  San  Frediano,  just 
Below  the  Blessed  Olivet, 

A  wayside  ground  wherein  they  thrust 
Their  dead, — these  Jews, — the  more  our  shame! 

Except  that,  so  they  will  but  die, 
We  may  perchance  incur  no  blame 

In  giving  hogs  a  hoist  to  stye. 

v. 

There,  anyhow,  Jews  stow  away 

Their  dead;  and, — such  their  insolence, — 
Slink  at  odd  times  to  sing  and  pray 

As  Christians  do — all  make-pretence! — 
Which  wickedness  they  perpetrate 

Because  they  think  no  Christians  see 
They  reckoned  here,  at  any  rate, 

Without  their  host:  ha,  ha,  he,  he! 

YI. 

For,  what  should  join  their  plot  of  ground 
But  a  good  Farmer's  Christian  field? 

The  Jews  had  hedged  their  corner  round 
With  bramble-bush  to  keep  concealed 


ON  THE  PRIVILEGE  OF  BURIAL.  355 

Their  doings:  for  the  public  road 
Ran  betwixt  this  their  ground  and  that 

The  Fiirmer's,  where  he  ploughed  and  sowed, 
Grew  corn  for  barn  and  grapes  for  vat. 

VII. 

So,  properly  to  guard  his  store 

And  gall  the  unbelievers  too, 
He  builds  a  shrine  and,  what  is  more, 

Procures  a  painter  whom  I  knew, 
One  Buti  (he  's  with  God)  to  paint 

A  holy  picture  there — no  less 
Than  Virgin  Mary  free  from  taint 

Borne  to  the  sky  by  angels:  yes! 

VIII. 

Which  shrine  he  fixed, — who  says  him  nay? — 

A-facing  with  its  picture-side 
Not,  as  you  'd  think,  the  public  way, 

But  just  where  sought  these  hounds  to  hide 
Their  carrion  from  that  very  truth 

Of  Mary's  triumph:  not  a  hound 
Could  act  his  mummeries  uncouth 

But  Mary  shamed  the  pack  all  round! 

IX. 

Now,  if  it  was  amusing,  judge! 

— To  see  the  company  arrive, 
Each  Jew  intent  to  end  his  trudge 

And  take  his  pleasure  (though  alive) 
With  all  his  Jewish  kith  and  kin 

Below  ground,  have  his  venom  out, 
Sharpen  his  wits  for  next  day's  sin, 

Curse  Christians,  and  so  home,  no  doubt  J 


356  ON  THE  PRIVILEGE  OF  B  URIAL. 

x. 

Whereas,  each  phiz  upturned  beholds 

Mary,  I  warrant,  soaring  brave! 
And  in  a  trice,  beneath  the  folds 

Of  filthy  garb  which  gowns  each  knave, 
Down  drops  it — there  to  hide  grimace, 

Contortion  of  the  mouth  and  nose 
At  finding  Mary  in  the  place 

They  'd  keep  for  Pilate,  I  suppose! 

XI. 

At  last,  they  will  not  brook — not  they ! — 

Longer  such  outrage  on  their  tribe: 
So,  in  some  hole  and  corner,  lay 

Their  heads  together — how  to  bribe 
The  meritorious  Farmer's  self 

To  straight  undo  his  work,  restore 
Their  chance  to  meet,  and  muse  on  pelf — 

Pretending  sorrow,  as  before! 

XII. 

Forthwith,  a  posse,  if  you  please, 

Of  Rabbi  This  and  Kabbi  That 
Almost  go  down  upon  their  knees 

To  get  him  lay  the  picture  flat. 
The  spokesman,  eighty  years  of  age, 

Gray  as  a  badger,  with  a  goat's 
— Not  only  beard  but  bleat,  'gins  wage 

War  with  our  Mary.     Thus  he  dotes: — 

xni. 

"Friends,  grant  a  grace !     How  He  brews  toil 
Through  life  in  Florence — why  relate 

To  those  who  lay  the  burden,  spoil 
Our  paths  of  peace?    We  bear  our  fate. 


ON  THE  PRIVILEGE  OF  BURIAL.  357 

But  when  with  life  the  long  toil  ends, 
Why  must  you — the  expression  craves 

Pardon,  but  truth  compels  me,  friends! — 
Why  must  you  plague  us  in  our  graves? 

XIV. 

"Thoughtlessly  plague,  I  would  believe! 

For  how  can  you — the  lords  of  ease 
By  nurture,  birthright — e'en  conceive 

Our  luxury  to  lie  with  trees 
And  turf, — the  cricket  and  the  bird 

Left  for  our  last  companionship: 
No  harsh  deed,  no  unkindly  word, 

No  frowning  brow  nor  scornful  lip! 

xv. 

"Death's  luxury,  we  now  rehearse 

While,  living,  through  your  streets  we  fare 
And  take  your  hatred :  nothing  worse 

Have  we,  once  dead  and  safe,  to  bear! 
So  we  refresh  our  souls,  fulfil 

Our  works,  our  daily  tasks;  and  thus 
Gather  you  grain — earth's  harvest — still 

The  wheat  for  you,  the  straw  for  us. 

XVI. 

"  'What  flouting  in  a  face,  what  harm, 

In  just  a  lady  borne  from  bier 
By  boys'  heads,  wings  for  leg  and  arm?' 

You  question.     Friends,  the  harm  is  here — 
That  just  when  our  last  sigh  is  heaved, 

And  we  would  fain  thank  God  and  you 
For  labor  done  and  peace  achieved, 

Back  conies  the  Past  in  full  review ! 


358  ON  THE  PR1 V1LEGE  OF  B  URIAL. 

XVII. 

"At  sight  of  just  that  simple  flag, 

Starts  the  foe-feeling  serpent-like 
From  slumber.     Leave  it  lulled,  nor  drag — 

Though  fangless — forth,  what  needs  must  strike 
When  stricken  sore,  though  stroke  be  vain 

Against  the  mailed  oppressor!     Give 
Play  to  our  fancy  that  we  gain 

Life's  rights  when  once  we  cease  to  live! 

XVIII. 

"Thus  much  to  courtesy,  to  kind, 

To  conscience !    Now  to  Florence  folk ! 
There  's  core  beneath  this  apple-rind, 

Beneath  this  white  of  egg  there  's  yolk ! 
Beneath  this  prayer  to  courtesy, 

Kind,  conscience — there  's  a  sum  to  pouch! 
How  many  ducats  down  will  buy 

Our  shame's  removal,  sirs?    Avouch! 

XIX. 

"Removal,  not  destruction,  sirs! 

Just  turn  your  picture !     Let  it  front 
The  public  path!     Or  memory  errs, 

Or  that  same  public  path  is  wont 
To  witness  many  a  chance  befall 

Of  lust,  theft,  bloodshed — sins  enough, 
"Wherein  our  Hebrew  part  is  small. 

Convert  yourselves!" — he  cut  up  rough. 

xx. 

Look  you,  how  soon  a  service  paid 

Religion  yields  the  servant  fruit! 
A  prompt  reply  our  Farmer  made 

So  following:  "Sirs,  to  grant  your  suit 


ON  THE  PRIVILEGE  OF  BURIAL.  359 

Involves  much  danger!     How?     Transpose 

Our  Lady?    Stop  the  chastisement, 
All  for  your  good,  herself  bestows? 

What  wonder  if  I  grudge  consent? 

XXI. 

— "Yet  grant  it:  since,  what  cash  I  take 

Is  so  much  saved  from  wicked  use. 
"We  know  you!     And,  for  Mary's  sake, 

A  hundred  ducats  shall  induce 
Concession  to  your  prayer.     One  day 

Suffices :  Master  Buti's  brush 
Turns  Mary  round  the  other  way, 

And  deluges  your  side  with  slush. 

XXII. 

"Down  with  the  ducats  therefore!"     Dump, 

Dump,  dump  it  falls,  each  counted  piece, 
Hard  gold.     Then  out  of  door  they  stump, 

These  dogs,  each  brisk  as  with  new  lease 
Of  life,  I  warrant, — glad  he  '11  die 

Henceforward  just  as  he  may  choose, 
Be  buried  and  in  clover  lie ! 

Well  said  Esaias — "stiff-necked  Jews!" 

XXIII. 

Off  posts  without  a  minute's  loss 

Our  Farmer,  once  the  cash  in  poke, 
And  summons  Buti — ere  its  gloss 

Have  time  to  fade  from  off  the  joke — 
To  chop  and  change  his  work,  undo 

The  done  side,  make  the  side,  now  blank, 
Recipient  of  our  Lady — who, 

Displaced  thus,  had  these  dogs  to  thank! 


360  ON  THE  PRIVILEGE  OF  BURIAL. 

XXIV. 

Now,  you  're  no  boy  I  need  instruct 

In  technicalities  of  Art! 
My  nephew's  childhood  sure  has  sucked 

Along  with  mother's-milk  some  part 
Of  painter's-practice — learned,  at  least, 

How  expeditiously  is  plied 
A  work  in  fresco — never  ceased 

When  once  begun — a  day,  each  side. 

XXV. 

So,  Bnti — he  's  with  God — begins: 

First  covers  up  the  shrine  all  round 
With  hoarding;  then,  as  like  as  twins, 

Paints,  t'other  side  the  burial-ground, 
New  Mary,  every  point  the  same; 

Next,  sluices  over,  as  agreed, 
The  old ;  and  last — but,  spoil  the  game 

By  telling  you?    Not  I,  indeed! 

XXVI. 

Well,  ere  the  week  was  half  at  end, 

Out  came  the  object  of  this  zeal, 
This  fine  alacrity  to  spend 

Hard  money  for  mere  dead  men's  weal! 
How  think  you?    That  old  spokesman  Jew 

Was  High  Priest,  and  he  had  a  wife 
As  old,  and  she  was  dying  too, 

And  wished  to  end  in  peace  her  life! 

XXVII. 

And  he  must  humor  dying  whims, 
And  soothe  her  with  the  idle  hope 

They  'd  say  their  prayers  and  sing  their  hymns 
As  if  her  husband  were  the  Pope ! 


ON  THE  PRIVILEGE  OF  B URIAL.  361 

And  she  did  die — believing  just 

This  privilege  was  purchased !     Dead 

In  comfort  through  her  foolish  trust! 
"Stiff-necked  ones,"  well  Esaias  said! 

XXVIIT. 

So,  Sabbath  morning,  out  of  gate 

And  on  to  way,  what  sees  our  arch 
Good  Farmer?     Why,  they  hoist  their  freight — 

The  corpse — on  shoulder,  and  so,  march! 
"Now  for  it,  Buti !"     In  the  nick 

Of  time  't  is  pully-hauly,  hence 
With  hoarding!     O'er  the  wayside  quick 

There  's  Mary  plain  in  evidence! 

XXIX. 

And  here  's  the  convoy  halting:  right! 

Oh,  they  are  bent  on  howling  psalms 
And  growling  prayers,  when  opposite! 

And  yet  they  glance,  for  all  their  qualms, 
Approve  that  promptitude  of  his, 

The  Farmer's — duly  at  his  post 
To  take  due  thanks  from  every  phiz, 

Sour  smirk — nay,  surly  smile  almost! 

XXX. 

Then  earthward  drops  each  brow  again; 

The  solemn  task  's  resumed;  they  reach 
Their  holy  field — the  unholy  train: 

Enter  its  precinct,  all  and  each, 
Wrapt  somehow  in  their  godless  rites; 

Till,  rites  at  end,  up-waking,  lo 
They  lift  their  faces !     What  delights 

The  mourners  as  they  turn  to  go? 


362  ON  THE  PRIVILEGE  OF  BURIAL. 

XXXI. 

Ha,  ha,  he,  he!     On  just  the  side 

They  drew  their  purse-strings  to  make  quit 
Of  Mary,— Christ  the  Crucified 

Fronted  them  now — these  biters  bit! 
Never  was  such  a  hiss  and  snort, 

Such  screwing  nose  and  shooting  lip! 
Their  purchase — honey  in  report — 

Proved  gall  and  verjuice  at  first  sip! 

XXXII. 

Out  they  break,  on  they  bustle,  where, 

A-top  of  wall,  the  Farmer  waits 
With  Buti :  never  fun  so  rare ! 

The  Farmer  has  the  best:  he  rates 
The  rascal,  as  the  old  High  Priest 

Takes  on  himself  to  sermonize — 
Nay,  sneer  "We  Jews  supposed,  at  least, 

Theft  was  a  crime  in  Christian  eyes!" 

XXXIII. 

"Theft?"  cries  the  Farmer.     "Eat  your  words! 

Show  me  what  constitutes  a  breach 
Of  faith  in  aught  was  said  or  heard! 

I  promised  you  in  plainest  speech 
I  'd  take  the  thing  you  count  disgrace 

And  put  it  here — and  here  't  is  put! 
Did  you  suppose  I  'd  leave  the  place 

Blank  therefore,  just  your  rage  to  glut? 

XXXIV. 

"I  guess  you  dared  not  stipulate 
For  such  a  damned  impertinence! 

So,  quick,  my  graybeard,  out  of  gate 
And  in  at  Ghetto!     Haste  you  hence! 


0#  THE  PRIVILEGE  OF  BURIAL.  363 

As  long  as  I  have  house  and  land, 

To  spite  you  irreligious  chaps 
Here  shall  the  Crucifixion  stand--- 

Unless  you  down  with  cash,  perhaps!" 

XXXV. 

So  snickered  he  and  Buti  both. 

The  Jews  said  nothing,  interchanged 
A  glance  or  two,  renewed  their  oath 

To  keep  ears  stopped  and  hearts  estranged 
From  grace,  for  all  our  Church  can  do. 

Then  off  they  scuttle:  sullen  jog 
Homewards,  against  our  Church  to  brew 

Fresh  mischief  in  their  synagogue. 

XXXVI. 

But  next  day — see  what  happened,  boy! 

See  why  I  bid  you  have  a  care 
How  you  pelt  Jews!     The  knaves  employ 

Such  methods  of  revenge,  forbear 
No  outrage  on  our  faith,  when  free 

To  wreak  their  malice!     Here  they  took 
So  base  a  method — plague  o'  me 

If  I  record  it  in  my  Book! 

XXXVII. 

For,  next  day,  while  the  Farmer  sat 

Laughing  with  Buti,  in  his  shop, 
At  their  successful  joke, — rat-tat, — 

Door  opens,  and  they  're  like  to  drop 
Down  to  the  floor  as  in  there  stalks 

A  six-feet-high  herculean-built 
Young  he-Jew  with  a  beard  that  balks 

Description.     "Help,  ere  blood  be  spilt!" 


364  ON  THE  PRIVTL EOE  OF  B  URIAL. 

XXXVIII. 

— Screamed  Buti:  for  he  recognized 

Whom  but  the  son,  no  less  no  more, 
Of  that  High  Priest  his  work  surprised 

So  pleasantly  the  day  before! 
Sou  of  the  mother,  then,  whereof 

The  bier  he  lent  a  shoulder  to, 
And  made  the  moans  about,  dared  scoff 

At  sober,  Christian  grief — the  Jew ! 

XXXIX. 

"Sirs,  I  salute  you !    Never  rise! 

No  apprehension !"     (Buti,  white 
And  trembling  like  a  tub  of  size, 

Had  tried  to  smuggle  out  of  sight 
The  picture's  self — the  thing  in  oils, 

You  know,  from  which  a  fresco  '&  dashed 
Which  courage  speeds  while  caution  spoils) 

"Stay  and  be  praised,  sir,  unabashed! 

XL. 

"Praised, — ay,  and  paid  too:  for  I  come 

To  buy  that  very  work  of  yours. 
My  poor  abode,  which  boasts — well,  some 

Few  specimens  of  Art,  secures 
Haply,  a  masterpiece  indeed 

If  I  should  find  my  humble  means 
Suffice  the  outlay.     So,  proceed ! 

Propose — ere  prudence  intervenes!" 

XLI, 

On  Buti,  cowering  like  a  child, 
These  words  descended  from  aloft, 

In  tone  so  ominously  mild, 
With  smile  terrifically  soft 


365 


To  that  degree — could  Buti  dare 

(Poor  fellow)  use  his  brains,  think  twice? 

He  asked,  thus  taken  unaware, 

No  more  than  jnst  the  proper  price! 

XLII. 

"Done!"  cries  the  monster.     "I  disburse 

Forthwith  your  moderate  demand. 
Count  on  my  custom — if  no  worse 

Your  future  work  be,  understand, 
Than  this  I  carry  off!     No  aid! 

My  arm,  sir,  lacks  nor  bone  nor  thews: 
The  burden  's  easy,  and  we  're  made, 

Easy  or  hard,  to  bear — we  Jews!" 

XLIII. 

Crossing  himself  at  such  escape, 

Buti  by  turns  the  money  eyes 
And,  timidly,  the  stalwart  shape 

Now  moving  doorwards;  but,  more  wise, 
The  Farmer, — who,  though  dumb,  this  while 

Had  watched  advantage, — straight  conceived 
A  reason  for  that  tone  and  smile 

So  mild  and  soft !     The  Jew — believed! 

XLIV. 

Mary  in  triumph  borne  to  deck 

A  Hebrew  household!     Pictured  where 
No  one  was  used  to  bend  the  neck 

In  praise  or  bow  the  knee  in  prayer! 
Borne  to  that  domicile  by  whom? 

The  son  of  the  High  Priest!     Through  what? 
An  insult  done  his  mother's  tomb! 

Saul  changed  to  Paul — the  case  came  patJ 


366  ON  THE  PRIVILEGE  Off  BURIAL. 

XLV. 

"Stay,  dog- Jew  .  .  .  gentle  sir,  that  is! 

Resolve  me!     Can  it  be,  she  crowned — 
Mary,  by  miracle —     Oh  bliss ! — 

My  present  to  your  burial-ground? 
Certain,  a  ray  of  light  has  burst 

Your  veil  of  darkness !     Had  you  else, 
Only  for  Mary's  sake,  unpursed 

So  much  hard  money?     Tell — oh,  tell's!" 

XLYI. 

Bound — like  a  serpent  that  we  took 

For  worm  and  trod  on — turns  his  bulk 
About  the  Jew.     First  dreadful  look 

Sends  Buti  in  a  trice  to  skulk 
Out  of  sight  somewhere,  safe — alack! 

But  our  good  Farmer  faith  made  bold: 
And  firm  (with  Florence  at  his  back) 

He  stood,  while  gruff  the  gutturals  rolled — 

XLVII. 

"Ay,  sir,  a  miracle  was  worked, 

By  quite  another  power,  I  trow, 
Than  ever  yet  in  canvas  lurked, 

Or  you  would  scarcely  face  me  now! 
A  certain  impulse  did  suggest 

A  certain  grasp  with  this  right-hand, 
Which  probably  had  put  to  rest 

Our  quarrel, — thus  your  throat  once  spanned ! 

XLVIII. 

"But  I  remembered  me,  subdued 
That  impulse,  and  you  face  me  still! 

And  soon  a  philosophic  mood 
Succeeding  (hear  it,  if  you  will !) 


OJV  THE  PRIVILEGE  OF  BURIAL.  36? 

Has  altogether  changed  my  views 

Concerning  Art.     Blind  prejudice! 
Well  may  you  Christians  tax  us  Jews 

With  scrupulosity  too  nice! 

XLIX. 

"For,  don't  I  see, — let  's  issue  join! — 

Whenever  I  'm  allowed  pollute 
(I — and  my  little  bag  of  coin) 

Some  Christian  palace  of  repute, 
Don't  I  see  stuck  up  everywhere 

Abundant  proof  that  cultured  taste 
Has  Beauty  for  its  only  care, 

And  upon  Truth  no  thought  to  waste? 

L. 

"  'Jew,  since  it  must  be,  take  in  pledge 

Of  payment' — so  a  Cardinal 
Has  sighed  to  me  as  if  a  wedge 

Entered  his  heart — 'this  best  of  all 
My  treasures  I'  Leda,  Ganymede, 

Or  Antiope;  swan,  eagle,  ape 
(Or  what  's  the  beast  of  what  's  the  breed), 

And  Jupiter  in  every  shape ! 

LI. 

"Whereat  if  I  presume  to  ask 

'But,  Eminence,  though  Titian's  whisk 
Of  brush  have  well  performed  its  task, 

How  comes  if  these  false  godships  frisk 
In  presence  of — what  yonder  frame 

Pretends  to  image?     Surely,  odd 
It  seems,  you  let  confront  The  Name 

Each  beast  the  heathen  called  his  god  I* 


368  ON  THE  PRIVILEGE  OF  B  URIAL. 

LII. 

"Benignant  smiles  me  pity  straight 

The  Cardinal.     "T  is  Truth,  we  prize! 
Art  's  the  sole  question  in  debate! 

These  subjects  are  so  many  lies. 
We  treat  them  with  a  proper  scorn 

When  we  turn  lies — called  gods  forsooth — 
To  lies'  fit  use,  now  Christ  is  born. 

Drawing  and  coloring  are  Truth. 

LIII. 

"  'Think  you  I  honor  lies  so  much 

As  scruple  to  parade  the  charms 
Of  Leda — Titian,  every  touch — 

Because  the  thing  within  her  arms 
Means  Jupiter  who  had  the  praise 

And  prayer  of  a  benighted  world? 
Benighted"  I  too,  if,  in  days 

Of  light,  I  kept  the  canvas  furled !' 

nv. 

"So  ending,  with  some  easy  gibe. 

What  power  has  logic !    I,  at  once, 
Acknowledged  error  in  our  tribe, 

So  squeamish  that,  when  friends  ensconce 
A  pretty  picture  in  its  niche 

To  do  us  honor,  deck  our  graves, 
We  fret  and  fume  and  have  an  itch 

To  strangle  folk — ungrateful  knaves ! 

LV. 

"No,  sir!     Be  sure  that — what  's  its  style, 
Your  picture? — shall  possess  ungrudged 

A  place  among  my  rank  and  file 
Of  Ledas  and  what  not — be  judged 


ON  THE  PRIVIL  EOE  OF  I)  URIA L.  369 

Just  as  a  picture! — and  (because 

I  fear  me  much  I  scarce  have  bought 

A  Titian)  Master  Buti's  flaws 

Found  there,  will  have  the  laugh  flaws  ought!" 

LVI. 

So,  with  a  scowl,  it  darkens  door — 

This  bulk — no  longer!     Buti  makes 
Prompt  glad  re-entry;  there  's  a  score 

Of  oaths,  as  the  good  Farmer  wakes 
From  what  must  needs  have  been  a  trance, 

Or  he  had  struck  (he  swears)  to  ground 
The  bold  bad  mouth  that  dared  advance 

Such  doctrine  the  reverse  of  sound ! 

LVII. 

"Was  magic  here?    Most  like!    For,  since, 

Somehow  our  city's  faith  grows  still 
More  and  more  lukewarm,  and  our  Prince 

Or  loses  heart  or  wants  the  will 
To  check  increase  of  cold.     'T  is  "Live 

And  let  live!     Languidly  repress 
The  Dissident!     In  short, — contrive 

Christians  must  bear  with  Jews:  no  less!'* 

LVIII. 

The  end  seems,  any  Israelite 

Wants  any  picture, — pishes,  poohs, 
Purchases,  hangs  it  full  in  sight 

In  any  chamber  he  may  choose! 
In  Christ's  crown,  one  more  thorn  we  rue! 

In  Mary's  bosom,  one  more  sword! 
No,  boy,  you  must  not  pelt  a  Jew! 

0  Lord,  how  long?    How  long,  0  Lord? 


370         SOLlLOQffT  OF  THE  SPANISH  CLOtSTER. 

SOLILOQUY  OF  THE  SPANISH  CLOISTER, 
i. 

GK-E-B — there  go,  my  heart's  abhorrence! 

Water  your  damned  flower-pots,  do ! 
If  hate  killed  men,  Brother  Lawrence, 

God's  blood,  would  not  mine  kill  you! 
What?  your  myrtle-bush  wants  trimming? 

Oh,  that  rose  has  prior  claims — 
Needs  its  leaden  vase  filled  brimming? 

Hell  dry  you  up  with  its  flames! 

ii. 

At  the  meal  we  sit  together: 

Salve  tibi !     I  must  hear 
Wise  talk  of  the  kind  of  weather, 

Sort  of  season,  time  of  year: 
Not  a  plenteous  cork-crop:  scarcely 

Dare  we  hope  oak-galls,  I  doubt: 
What 's  the  Latin  name  for  "parsley"? 

What  's  the  Greek  name  for  Swine's  Snout? 

in. 

Whew!     We  '11  have  our  platter  burnished, 

Laid  with  care  on  our  own  shelf! 
With  a  fire-new  spoon  we  're  furnished, 

And  a  goblet  for  ourself, 
Rinsed  like  something  sacrificial 

Ere  't  is  fit  to  touch  our  chaps — 
Marked  with  L.  for  our  initial ! 

(He-he!     There  his  lily  snaps!) 

IV. 

Saint,  forsooth !     While  brown  Dolores 
Squats  outside  the  Convent  bank 


SOLILOQUY  OF  TEE  SPANISH  CLOISTER.         371 

With  Sanchicha,  telling  stories, 

Steeping  tresses  in  the  tank, 
Blue-black,  lustrous,  thick  like  horse-hairs, 

— Can't  I  see  his  dead  eye  glow, 
Bright  as  't  were  a  Barbary  corsair's? 

(That  is,  if  he  'd  let  it  show !) 

v. 

When  he  finishes  refection, 

Knife  and  fork  he  never  lays 
Cross-wise,  to  my  recollection, 

As  do  I,  in  Jesu's  praise. 
I  the  Trinity  illustrate, 

Drinking  watered  orange-pulp — 
In  three  sips  the  Arian  frustrate; 

While  he  drains  his  at  one  gulp. 

VI. 

Oh,  'those  melons?    If  he  's  able 

We  're  to  have  a  feast!  so  nice! 
One  goes  to  the  Abbot's  table, 

All  of  us  get  each  a  slice. 
How  go  on  your  flowers?     None  double? 

Not  one  fruit-sort  can  you  spy? 
Strange? — And  I,  too,  at  such  trouble 

Keep  them  close-nipped  on  the  slyl 

VII. 

There  's  a  great  text  in  Galatians, 

Once  you  trip  on  it,  entails 
Twenty-nine  distinct  damnations, 

One  sure,  if  another  fails: 
If  1  trip  him  just  a-dying, 

Sure  of  heaven  as  sure  can  be, 
Spin  him  round  and  send  him  flying 

Off  to  hell,  a  Manichee? 


372  THE  HERETIC'S  TRAGEDY. 

VIII. 
Or,  my  scrofulous  French  novel 

On  gray  paper  with  blunt  type! 
Simply  glance  at  it,  you  grovel 

Hand  and  foot  in  Belial's  gripe: 
If  I  double  down  its  pages 

At  the  wof  ul  sixteenth  print, 
When  he  gathers  his  greengages, 

Ope  a  sieve  and  slip  it  in  't? 

IX. 

Or,  there  's  Satan! — one  might  venture 

Pledge  one's  soul  to  him,  yet  leave 
Such  a  flaw  in  the  indenture 

As  he  'd  miss  till,  past  retrieve, 
Blasted  lay  that  rose-acacia 

We  're  so  proud  of!    Hy,  Zy,  Hine  . 
'St,  there  's  Vespers !     Plena  gratia 

Ave,  Virgo!    Gr-r-r — you  swine! 


THE  HERETIC'S  TRAGEDY. 

A    MIDDLE-AGE   INTERLUDE. 

ROSA  MUNDI;  8ETJ,  FULCITE  ME  FLORIBUS.  A.  CONCEIT  OF  MASTER 
GY8BRECHT,  CANON  -REGULAR  OF  SAINT  JODOCU8  BY-THE-BAR, 
YPRES  CITY.  CANTUQUE,  VirgiliuS.  AND  HATH  OFTEN  BEEN 
SUNG  AT  HOCK-  TIDE  AND  FESTIVALS.  GAVISUS  ERAM,  JeS&ideS. 

(It  would  seem  to  be  a  glimpse  from  tlie  burning  of  Jacques  du 
Bourg-Molay,  at  Paris,  A.D.  1314;  as  distorted  by  the  refraction 
from  Flemish  brain  to  brain,  during  the  course  of  a  couple  of  cen- 
turies.) 

I. 

PREADMONISHETH   THE   ABBOT    DEODABT. 

THE  Lord,  we  look  to  once  for  all, 

Is  the  Lord  we  should  look  at,  all  at  once: 

He  knows  not  to  vary,  saith  Saint  Paul, 
Nor  the  shadow  of  turning,  for  the  nonce. 


THE  HERETIC'S  TRAGEDY.  373 

See  him  no  other  than  as  he  is! 

Give  both  the  infinitudes  their  due — 
Infinite  mercy,  but,  I  wis, 

As  infinite  a  justice  too. 

[  Organ:  plagal-cadence. 

As  infinite  a  justice  too. 

ii. 

ONE   SINGETH. 

John,  Master  of  the  Temple  of  God, 

Falling  to  sin  the  Unknown  Sin, 
What  he  bought  of  Emperor  Aldabrod, 

He  sold  it  to  Sultan  Saladin: 
Till,  caught  by  Pope  Clement,  a-buzzing  there, 

Hornet-prince  of  the  mad  wasps'  hive, 
And  clipt  of  his  wings  in  Paris  square, 

They  bring  him  now  to  be  burned  alive. 

[And  wantetli  there  grace  of  lute  or  clavicithern, 
ye  shall  say  to  confirm  him  who  singeth — 

We  bring  John  now  to  be  burned  alive. 

in. 

In  the  midst  is  a  goodly  gallows  built; 

'Twixt  fork  and  fork,  a  stake  is  stuck; 
But  first  they  set  divers  tumbrils  a-tilt, 

Make  a  trench  all  round  with  the  city  muck; 
Inside  they  pile  log  upon  log,  good  store; 

Fagots  not  few,  blocks  great  and  small, 
Eeach  a  man's  mid-thigh,  no  less,  no  more, — 

For  they  mean  he  should  roast  in  the  sight  of  all. 

CHORUS. 
We  mean  he  should  roast  in  the  sight  of  all. 

IV. 

Good  sappy  bavins  that  kindle  forthwith; 
Billets  that  blaze  substantial  and  slow; 


374  T1IE  HERETIC  '8  TRA QED  Y. 

Pine-stump  split  deftly,  dry  as  pith ; 

Larch-heart  that  chars  to  a  chalk-white  glow: 
Then  up  they  hoist  me  John  in  a  chafe, 

Sling  him  fast  like  a  hog  to  scorch, 
Spit  in  his  face,  then  leap  back  safe, 

Sing  "Laudes,"  and  bid  clap-to  the  torch. 

CHORUS. 
Laus  Deo — who  bids  clap-to  the  torch. 

v. 

John  of  the  Temple,  whose  fame  so  bragged, 

Is  burning  alive  in  Paris  square! 
How  can  ne  curse,  if  his  mouth  is  gagged? 

Or  wriggle  his  neck,  with  a  collar  there? 
Or  heave  his  chest,  while  a  band  goes  round? 

Or  threat  with  his  fist,  since  his  arms  are  spliced? 
Or  kick  with  his  feet,  now  his  legs  are  bound? 

— Thinks  John,  I  will  call  upon  Jesus  Christ. 
[Here  one  crosseth  himself. 

VI. 

Jesus  Christ — John  had  bought  and  sold, 

Jesus  Christ— John  had  eaten  and  drunk; 
To  him,  the  Flesh  meant  silver  and  gold. 

(Salvd  reverentid.) 
Now  it  was,  "Saviour,  bountiful  lamb, 

I  have  roasted  thee  Turks,  though  men  roast  me! 
See  thy  servant,  the  plight  wherein  I  am ! 

Art  thou  a  saviour?     Savethoume!" 

CHOKUS. 
'T  is  John  the  mocker  cries,  "Save  thou  me!" 


THE  HERETIC'S  TRAGEDY.  375 

VII. 

Who  maketh  God's  menace  an  idle  word? 

— Saith,  it  no  more  means  what  it  proclaims, 
Than  a  damsel's  threat  to  her  wanton  bird? — 

For  she  too  prattles  of  ugly  names. 
— S.vith,  he  knoweth  but  one  thing, — what  he  knows? 

That  God  is  good  and  the  rest  is  breath ; 
Why  else  is  the  same  styled  Sharon's  rose? 

Once  a  rose,  ever  a  rose,  he  saith. 

CHORUS. 
Oh,  John  shall  yet  find  a  rose,  he  saith. 

VIII. 

Alack,  there  be  roses  and  roses,  John ! 

Some  honeyed  of  taste  like  your  leman's  tongue: 
Some,  bitter;  for  why?  (roast  gayly  on!) 

Their  tree  struck  root  in  devil's  dung. 
When  Paul  once  reasoned  of  righteousness 

And  of  temperance  and  of  judgment  to  come, 
Good  Felix  trembled,  he  could  no  less: 

John  snickering,  crooked  his  wicked  thumb. 

CHORUS. 
What  cometh  to  John  of  the  wicked  thumb? 

IX. 

Ha,  ha!  John  plucketh  now  at  his  rose 

To  rid  himself  of  a  sorrow  at  heart! 
Lo, — petal  on  petal,  fierce  rays  unclose; 

Anther  on  anther,  sharp  spikes  out-start; 
And  with  blood  for  dew,  the  bosom  boils; 

And  a  gust  of  sulphur  is  all  its  smell; 
And  lo,  he  is  horribly  in  the  toils 

Of  a  coal-black  giant  flower  of  hell ! 


376  AMPHIBIAN. 

CHOBUS. 

What  maketh  heaven,  That  maketh  hell. 
x. 

So,  as  John  called  now,  through  the  fire  amain, 

On  the  Name,  he  had  cursed  with,  all  his  life — 
To  the  Person,  he  bought  and  sold  again — 

For  the  Face,  with  his  daily  buffets  rife — 
Feature  by  feature  It  took  its  place; 

And  his  voice,  like  a  mad  dog's  choking  bark, 
At  the  steady  whole  of  the  Judge's  face — 

Died.     Forth  John's  soul  flared  into  the  dark. 

SUBJOINETH  THE  ABBOT  DEODAET. 

God  help  all  poor  souls  lost  in  the  dark! 


AMPHIBIAN, 
i. 


THE  fancy  I  had  to-day, 
Fancy  which  turned  a  fear! 

I  swam  far  out  in  the  bay, 
Since  waves  laughed  warm  and  clear. 


11. 


I  lay  and  looked  at  the  sun, 
The  noon-sun  looked  at  me: 

Between  us  two,  no  one 
Live  creature,  that  I  could  see. 


in. 


Yes!     There  came  floating  by 
Me,  who  lay  floating  too, 

Such  a  strange  butterfly ! 
Creature  as  dear  as  new : 


AMPHIBIAN.  377 

IV. 

Because  the  membraned  wings 

So  wonderful,  so  wide, 
So  sun-suffused,  were  things 

Like  soul  and  naught  beside. 

v. 

A  handbreadth  over  head! 

All  of  the  sea  my  own, 
It  owned  the  sky  instead; 

Both  of  us  were  alone. 

VI. 

I  never  shall  join  its  flight, 

For  naught  buoys  flesh  in  air. 
If  it  touch  the  sea — good-night! 

Death  sure  and  swift  waits  there. 

VII. 

Can  the  insect  feel  the  better 

For  watching  the  uncouth  play 
Of  limbs  that  slip  the  fetter, 

Pretend  as  they  were  not  clay? 

VIII. 

Undoubtedly  I  rejoice 

That  the  air  comports  so  well 
With  a  creature  which  had  the  choice 

Of  the  land  once.     Who  can  tell? 

IX. 

What  if  a  certain  soul 

Which  early  slipped  its  sheath, 
And  has  for  its  home  the  whole 

Of  heaven,  thus  look  beneath, 


378  AMPHIBIAN. 

x. 

Thus  watch  one  who,  in  the  world, 
Both  lives  and  likes  life's  way, 

Nor  wishes  the  wings  unfurled 
That  sleep  in  the  worm,  they  say? 

XI. 

But  sometimes  when  the  weather 
Is  blue,  and  warm  waves  tempt 

To  free  one's  self  of  tether, 
And  try  a  life  exempt 

XII. 

From  worldly  noise  and  dust, 
In  the  sphere  which  overbrims 

With  passion  and  thought, — why,  just 
Unable  to  fly,  one  swims! 

XIII. 

By  passion  and  thought  upborne, 
One  smiles  to  one's  self — "They  fare 

Scarce  better,  they  need  not  scorn 
Our  sea,  who  live  in  the  air!" 

XIV. 

Emancipate  through  passion 
And  thought,  with  sea  for  sky, 

"We  substitute,  in  a  fashion, 
For  heaven — poetry: 

xv. 

Which  sea,  to  all  intent, 

Gives  flesh  such  noon-disport 

As  a  finer  element 
Affords  the  spirit-sort. 


ST.  MARTIN'S  SUMMER.  379 

XVI. 

Whatever  they  are,  we  seem : 

Imagine  the  thing  they  know; 
All  deeds  they  do,  we  dream; 

Can  heaven  be  else  but  so? 

XVII. 

And  meantime,  yonder  streak 

Meets  the  horizon's  verge; 
That  is  the  land,  to  seek 

If  we  tire  or  dread  the  surge; 

XVIII. 

Land  the  solid  and  safe — 

To  welcome  again  (confess!) 
When,  high  and  dry,  we  chafe 

The  body,  and  don  the  dress. 

XIX. 

Does  she  look,  pity,  wonder 

At  one  who  mimics  flight, 
Swims — heaven  above,  sea  under, 

Yet  always  earth  in  sight? 


ST.  MARTIN'S  SUMMER 
i. 

No  protesting,  dearest! 
Hardly  kisses  even ! 

Don't  we  both  know  how  it  ends? 
How  the  greenest  leaf  turns  searest? 
Bluest  outbreak — blankest  heaven? 
Lovers — friends? 


380  ST.  MARTIN'S  SUMMER. 

II. 

You  would  build  a  mansion, 
I  would  weave  a  bower 

— Want  the  heart  for  enterprise. 
"Walls  admit  of  no  expansion: 
Trellis-work  may  haply  flower 
Twice  the  size. 

in. 

What  makes  glad  Life's  Winter? 
New  buds,  old  blooms  after. 

Sad  the  sighing  "How  suspect 
Beams  would  ere  mid-autumn  splinter, 
Eooftree  scarce  support  a  rafter, 
Walls  lie  wrecked?" 

IV. 

You  are  young,  my  princess ! 
I  am  hardly  older: 

Yet — I  steal  a  glance  behind! 
Dare  I  tell  you  what  convinces 
Timid  me  that  you,  if  bolder, 
Bold— are  blind? 

v. 

Where  we  plan  our  dwelling 
Glooms  a  graveyard  surely ! 

Headstone,  footstone  moss  may  drape,- 
Name,  date,  violets  hide  from  spelling, — 
But,  though  corpses  rot  obscurely, 
Ghosts  escape. 

VI. 

Ghosts!     0  breathing  Beauty, 
Give  my  frank  word  pardon ! 
What  if  I — somehow,  somewhere — 


ST.  MARTIN'S  SUMMER.  33 

Pledged  my  soul  to  endless  duty 
Many  a  time  and  oft?     Be  hard  on 
Love — laid  there? 

VII. 

Nay,  blame  grief  that  's  fickle, 
Time  that  proves  a  traitor, 

Chance,  change,  all  that  purpose  warps, — 
Death  who  spares  to  thrust  the  sickle, 
Which  laid  Love  low,  through  flowers  which  later 
Shroud  the  corpse! 

VIII. 

And  you,  my  winsome  lady, 

Whisper  me  with  like  frankness ! 
Lies  nothing  buried  long  ago? 
Are  yon — which  shimmer  mid  what  's  shady 
Where  moss  and  violet  run  to  rankness — 
Tombs,  or  no? 

IX. 

Who  taxes  you  with  murder? 
My  hands  are  clean — or  nearly! 

Love  being  mortal  needs  must  pass. 
Repentance?     Nothing  were  absurd er. 
Enough:  we  felt  Love's  loss  severely; 
Though  now — alas! 

x. 

Love's  corpse  lies  quiet  therefore, 
Only  Love's  ghost  plays  truant, 

And  warns  us  have  in  wholesome  awe 
Durable  mansionry;  that  's  wherefore 
I  weave  but  trellis-work,  pursuant 
— Life,  to  law. 


382  81.  MARI1N  'S  SUMMER. 

XI. 

The  solid,  not  the  fragile, 

Tempts  rain  and  hail  and  thunder. 

If  bower  stand  firm  at  autumn's  close, 
Beyond  my  hope, — why,  boughs  were  agile; 
If  bower  fall  flat,  we  scarce  need  wonder 
Wreathing — rose ! 

XII. 

So,  truce  to  the  protesting, 
So,  muffled  be  the  kisses! 

For,  would  we  but  avow  the  truth, 
Sober  is  genuine  joy.     No  jesting! 
Ask  else  Penelope,  Ulysses — 
Old  in  youth ! 

XIII. 

For  why  should  ghosts  feel  angered? 
Let  all  their  interference 

Be  faint  march-music  in  the  air! 
"Up!    Join  the  rear  of  us  the  vanguard! 
Up,  lovers,  dead  to  all  appearance, 
Laggard  pair!" 

XIV. 

The  while  you  clasp  me  closer, 
The  while  I  press  you  deeper, 

As  safe  we  chuckle, — under  breath, 
Yet  all  the  slyer,  the  jocoser, — 

"So,  life  can  boast  its  day,  like  leap-year, 
Stolen  from  death!" 

xv. 

Ah  me — the  sudden  terror! 

Hence  quick — avaunt,  avoid  me, 
You  cheat,  the  ghostly  flesh-disguised! 


JAMES  LEE'S  WIVE.  383 

Nay,  all  the  ghosts  in  one!     Strange  error! 
So,  't  was  Death's  self  that  clipped  and  coyed  me, 
Loved — and  lied ! 

XVI. 

Ay,  dead  loves  are  the  potent! 
Like  any  cloud  they  used  you, 

Mere  semblance  you,  but  substance  they! 
Build  we  no  mansion,  weave  we  no  tent! 
Mere  flesh — their  spirit  interfused  you ! 
Hence,  I  say ! 

XVII. 

All  theirs,  none  yours  the  glamour! 
Theirs  each  low  word  that  won  me, 

Soft  look  that  found  me  Love's,  and  left 
What  else  but  you — the  tears  and  clamor 
That  's  all  your  very  own !    Undone  me — 
Ghost-bereft ! 


JAMES  LEE'S  WIFE. 
I. 

JAMES  LEE'S  WIFE   SPEAKS  AT  THE  WINDOW. 
I. 

AH,  Love,  but  a  day, 
And  the  world  has  changed ! 

The  sun  's  away, 
And  the  bird  estranged ; 

The  wind  has  dropped, 
And  the  sky  's  deranged: 

Summer  has  stopped. 


384  JAMES  LEE'S  WIFE. 

II. 

\ 

Look  in  my  eyes ! 

Wilt  thou  change  too? 
Should  I  fear  surprise? 

Shall  I  find  aught  new 
In  the  old  and  dear, 

In  the  good  and  true, 
With  the  changing  year? 

in. 

Thou  art  a  man, 

But  I  am  thy  love. 
For  the  lake,  its  swan ; 

For  the  dell,  its  dove; 
And  for  thee — (oh,  haste!) 

Me  to  bend  above, 
Me,  to  hold  embraced. 

II. 

BY  THE    FIKESIDE. 
I. 

Is  all  our  fire  of  shipwreck  wood, 

Oak  and  pine? 
Oh,  for  the  ills  half-understood, 

The  dim  dead  woe 

Long  ago 

Befallen  this  bitter  coast  of  France! 
Well,  poor  sailors  took  their  chance; 

I  take  mine. 

ii. 

A  ruddy  shaft  our  fire  must  shoot 
O'er  the  sea; 


JAMES  LEE'S  WIFE.  385 

Do  sailors  eye  the  casement — mute, 

Drenched  and  stark, 

From  their  bark — 
And  envy,  gnash  their  teeth  for  hate 
0'  the  warm  safe  house  and  happy  freight 

— Thee  and  me? 

in. 

God  help  you,  sailors,  at  your  need ! 

Spare  the  curse ! 
For  some  ships,  safe  in  port  indeed, 

Rot  and  rust, 

Run  to  dust, 

All  through  worms  i'  the  wood,  which  crept, 
Gnawed  our  hearts  out  while  we  slept: 

That  is  worse. 

IV. 

Who  lived  here  before  us  two? 

Old-world  pairs. 
Did  a  woman  ever — would  I  knew! — 

Watch  the  man 

With  whom  began 

Love's  voyage  full-sail, — (now,  gnash  your  teeth !) 
When  planks  start,  open  hell  beneath 

Unawares? 

III. 

IN   THE   DOORWAY. 
I. 

THE  swallow  has  set  her  six  young  on  the  rail, 

And  looks  seaward : 
The  water  's  in  stripes  like  a  snake,  olive-pale 

To  the  leeward, — 

On  the  weather-side,  black,  spotted  white  with  the  wind. 
"Good  fortune  departs,  and  disaster  's  behind," — 
Hark,  the  wind  with  its  wants  and  its  infinite  wail ! 


386  JAMES  LEE "8  WIFE. 

II. 

Our  fig-tree,  that  leaned  for  the  saltness,  has  furled 

Her  five  fingers, 
Each  leaf  like  a  hand  opened  wide  to  the  world 

Where  there  lingers 

No  glint  of  the  gold,  Summer  sent  for  her  sake: 
How  the  vines  writhe  in  rows,  each  impaled  on  its  stake! 
My  heart  shrivels  up  and  my  spirit  shrinks  curled. 

in. 

Yet  here  are  we  two;  we  have  love,  house  enough, 

With  the  field  there, 
This  house  of  four  rooms,  that  field  red  and  rough, 

Though  it  yield  there, 

For  the  rabbit  that  robs,  scarce  a  blade  or  a  bent; 
If  a  magpie  alight  now,  it  seems  an  event; 
And  they  both  will  be  gone  at  November's  rebuff. 

IV. 

But  why  must  cold  spread?  but  wherefore  bring  change 

To  the  spirit, 
God  meant  should  mate  his  with  an  infinite  range, 

And  inherit 

His  power  to  put  life  in  the  darkness  and  cold? 
0,  live  and  love  worthily,  bear  and  be  bold ! 
Whom  Summer  made  friends  of,  let  Winter  estrange! 

IV. 

ALONG   THE   BEACH. 
I. 

I  WILL  be  quiet  and  talk  with  you, 
And  reason  why  you  are  wrong. 

You  wanted  my  love — is  that  much  true? 

And  so  I  did  love,  so  I  do: 
What  has  come  of  it  all  along? 


JAMES  LEE'S  WIFE.  387 

II. 

I  took  you — how  could  I  otherwise? 

For  a  world  to  me,  and  more; 
For  all,  love  greatens  and  glorifies 
Till  God  's  a-glow,  to  the  loving  eyes, 

In  what  was  mere  earth  before. 

in. 

Yes,  earth — yes,  mere  ignoble  earth ! 

Now  do  I  misstate,  mistake? 
Do  I  wrong  your  weakness  and  call  it  worth? 
Expect  all  harvest,  dread  no  dearth, 

Seal  my  sense  up  for  your  sake? 

IV. 

0  Love,  Love,  no,  Love!  not  so,  indeed 
You  were  just  weak  earth,  I  knew: 

With  much  in  you  waste,  with  many  a  weed, 

And  plenty  of  passions  run  to  seed, 
But  a  little  good  grain  too. 

v. 

And  such  as  you  were,  I  took  you  for  mine: 

Did  not  you  find  me  yours, 
To  watch  the  olive  and  wait  the  vine, 
And  wonder  when  rivers  of  oil  and  wine 

Would  flow,  as  the  Book  assures? 

VI. 

Well,  and  if  none  of  these  good  things  came, 

What  did  the  failure  prove? 
The  man  was  my  whole  world,  all  the  same, 
With  his  flowers  to  praise  or  his  weeds  to  blame, 

And,  either  or  both,  to  love. 


388  JAMES  LEE'S  WIFE. 

VII. 

Yet  this  turns  now  to  a  fault — there!  there! 

That  I  do  love,  watch  too  long, 
And  wait  too  well,  and  weary  and  wear; 
And  't  is  all  an  old  story,  and  my  despair 

Fit  subject  for  some  new  song: 

VIII. 

"How  the  light,  light  love,  he  has  wings  to  fly 

At  suspicion  of  a  bond : 

My  wisdom  has  bidden  your  pleasure  good-by, 
Which  will  turn  up  next  in  a  laughing  eye, 

And  why  should  you  look  beyond?" 

V. 

Otf   THE   CLIFF. 
I. 

I  LEANED  on  the  turf, 

I  looked  at  a  rock 

Left  dry  by  the  surf; 

For  the  turf,  to  call  it  grass  were  to  mock: 

Dead  to  the  roots,  so  deep  was  done 

The  work  of  the  summer  sun. 

ii. 

And  the  rock  lay  flat 

As  an  anvil's  face: 

No  iron  like  that ! 

Baked  dry;  of  a  weed,  of  a  shell,  no  trace: 

Sunshine  outside,  but  ice  at  the  core, 

Death's  altar  by  the  lone  shore. 

in. 

On  the  turf,  sprang  gay 
With  his  films  of  blue, 


JAMES  LEE'S  WIFE.  389 

No  cricket,  I  '11  say, 

But  a  warhorse,  barded  and  chanfroned  too, 
The  gift  of  a  quixote-mage  to  his  knight, 
Real  fairy,  with  wings  all  right. 

IV. 

On  the  rock,  they  scorch 

Like  a  drop  of  fire 

From  a  brandished  torch, 

Fall  two  red  fans  of  a  butterfly: 

No  turf,  no  rock, — in  their  ugly  stead, 

See,  wonderful  blue  and  red! 

v. 

Is  it  not  so 

With  the  minds  of  men? 

The  level  and  low, 

The  burnt  and  bare,  in  themselves;  but  then 

"With  such  a  blue  and  red  grace,  not  theirs, 

Love  settling  unawares ! 

VI. 

BEADING   A   BOOK,    UNDEB  THE  CLIFF. 
I. 

"STILL  ailing,  Wind?    Wilt  be  appeased  or  no? 

Which  needs  the  other's  office,  thou  or  I? 
Dost  want  to  be  disbnrthened  of  a  woe, 

And  can,  in  truth,  my  voice  untie 
Its  links,  and  let  it  go? 

ii. 

"Art  thou  a  dumb,  wronged  thing  that  would  be  righted, 
Intrusting  thus  thy  cause  to  me?     Forbear! 

No  tongue  can  mend  such  pleadings;  faith,  requited 
With  falsehood, — love  at  last  aware 

Of  scorn, — hopes,  early  blighted, — • 


390  JAMES  LEE' 8  WIFE. 

III. 

"We  have  them;  but  I  know  not  any  tone 

So  fit  as  thine  to  falter  forth  a  sorrow: 
Dost  think  men  would  go  mad  without  a  moan, 

11  they  knew  any  way  to  borrow 
A  pathos  like  thy  own? 

IV. 

"Which  sigh  wouldst  mock,  of  all  the  sighs?    The  qne 
So  long  escaping  from  lips  starved  and  blue, 

That  lasts  while  on  her  pallet-bed  the  nun 
Stretches  her  length;  her  foot  comes  through 

The  straw  she  shivers  on ; 

v. 

"You  had  not  thought  she  was  so  tall:  and  spent, 
Her  shrunk  lids  open,  her  lean  fingers  shut 

Close,  close,  their  sharp  and  livid  nails  indent 
The  clammy  palm;  then  all  is  mute: 

That  way,  the  spirit  went. 

VI. 

"Or  wouldst  thou  rather  that  I  understand 
Thy  will  to  help  me? — like  the  dog  1  found 

Once,  pacing  sad  this  solitary  strand, 

Who  would  not  take  my  food,  poor  hound, 

But  whined,  and  licked  my  hand." 

VII. 

All  this,  and  more,  comes  from  some  young  man's  pride 
Of  power  to  see,' — in  failure  and  mistake, 

Eelinquishment,  disgrace,  on  every  side, — 
Merely  examples  for  his  sake, 

Helps  to  his  path  untried : 


JAMKS  LEE'S  WIFE.  391 

VIII. 

Instances  he  must — simply  recognize? 

Oh,  more  than  so! — must,  with  a  learner's  zeal, 
Make  doubly  prominent,  twice  emphasize, 

By  added  touches  that  reveal 
TI;e  god  in  babe's  disguise. 

IX. 

Oh,  he  knows  what  defeat  means,  and  the  rest! 

Himself  the  undefeated  that  shall  be: 
Failure,  disgrace,  he  flings  them  you  to  test, — 

His  triumph,  in  eternity 
Too  plainly  manifest! 

x. 

Whence,  judge  if  he  learn  forthwith  what  the  wind 
Means  in  Its  moaning — by  the  happy  prompt 

Instinctive  way  of  youth,  I  mean;  for  kind 
Calm  years,  exacting  their  accompt 

Of  pain,  mature  the  mind: 

XI. 

And  some  midsummer  morning,  at  the  lull 
Just  about  daybreak,  as  he  looks  across 

A  sparkling  foreign  country,  wonderful 
To  the  sea's  edge  for  gloom  and  gloss 

Next  minute  must  annul, — 

XII. 

Then,  when  the  wind  begins  among  the  vines, 
So  low,  so  low,  what  shall  it  say  but  this? 

"Here  is  the  change  beginning,  here  the  lines 
Circumscribe  beauty,  set  to  bliss 

The  limit  time  assigns." 


392  JAMES  LEE'S  WIFE. 

XIII. 

Nothing  can  be  as  it  has  been  before; 

Better,  so  call  it,  only  not  the  same. 
To  draw  one  beauty  into  our  hearts'  core, 

And  keep  it  changeless!  such  our  claim; 
So  answered, — Never  more! 

XIV. 

Simple?    Why  this  is  the  old  woe  o'  the  world; 

Tune,  to  whose  rise  and  fall  we  live  and  die. 
Rise  with  it,  then !     Eejoice  that  man  is  hurled 

From  change  to  change  unceasingly, 
His  soul's  wings  never  furled ! 

xv. 

That 's  a  new  question;  still  replies  the  fact, 
Nothing  endures:  the  wind  moans,  saying  so; 

We  moan  in  acquiescence:  there  's  life's  pact, 
Perhaps  probation — do  1  know? 

God  does:    endure  his  act! 

XVI. 

Only,  for  man,  how  bitter  not  to  grave 

On  his  soul's  hands'  palms  one  fair  good  wise  thing 
Just  as  he  grasped  it!     For  himself,  death's  wave; 

While  time  first  washes — ah,  the  sting! — 
O'er  all  he  'd  sink  to  save. 

VII. 

AMONG   THE   BOOKS. 
I. 

OH,  good  gigantic  smile  o'  the  brown  old  earth, 
This  autumn  morning!    How  he  sets  his  bones 


JAMES  LEE'S  WIFE.  393 

To  bask  i'  the  sun,  and  thrusts  out  knees  and  feet 
For  the  ripple  to  run  over  in  its  mirth; 

Listening  the  while,  where  on  the  heap  of  stones 
The  white  breast  of  the  sea-lark  twitters  sweet. 

II. 

That  is  the  doctrine,  simple,  ancient,  true; 

Such  is  life's  trial,  as  old  earth  smiles  and  knows. 
If  you  loved  only  what  were  worth  your  love, 
Love  were  clear  gain,  and  wholly  well  for  you : 

Make  the  low  nature  better  by  your  throes! 
Give  earth  yourself,  go  up  for  gain  above! 

VIII. 

BESIDE  THE   DRAWING-BOARD. 
I. 

"As  like  as  a  Hand  to  another  Hand!'* 

Whoever  said  that  foolish  thing, 
Could  not  have  studied  to  understand 

The  counsels  of  God  in  fashioning, 
Out  of  the  infinite  love  of  his  heart, 
This  Hand,  whose  beauty  I  praise,  apart 
From  the  world  of  wonder  left  to  praise, 
If  I  tried  to  learn  the  other  ways 
Of  love,  in  its  skill,  or  love,  in  its  power. 

"As  like  as  a  Hand  to  another  Hand:" 

Who  said  that,  never  took  his  stand, 
Found  and  followed,  like  me,  an  hour, 
The  beauty  in  this, — how  free,  how  fine 
To  fear,  almost, — of  the  limit-line! 
As  I  looked  at  this,  and  learned  and  drew, 

Drew  and  learned,  and  looked  again, 
While  fast  the  happy  minutes  flew, 


394  JAMES  LEE'S  WIFE. 

Its  beauty  mounted  into  my  brain, 
And  a  fancy  seized  me :  I  was  fain 

To  efface  my  work,  begin  anew, 

Kiss  what  before  I  only  drew; 

Ay,  laying  the  red  chalk  'tvvixt  my  lips, 
With  soul  to  help  if  the  mere  lips  failed, 
I  kissed  all  right  where  the  drawing  ailed, 

Kissed  fast  the  grace  that  somehow  slips 

Still  from  one's  soulless  finger-tips. 

n. 

'T  is  a  clay  cast,  the  perfect  thing, 

From  Hand  live  once,  dead  long  ago: 
Princess-like  it  wears  the  ring 

To  fancy's  eye,  by  which  we  know 
That  here  at  length  a  master  found 

His  match,  a  proud  lone  soul  its  mate, 
As  soaring  genius  sank  to  ground 

And  pencil  could  not  emulate 
The  beauty  in  this, — how  free,  how  fine 
To  fear  almost! — of  the  limit-line. 
Long  ago  the  god,  like  me 
The  worm,  learned,  each  in  our  degree: 
Looked  and  loved,  learned  and  drew, 

Drew  and  learned  and  loved  again, 
While  fast  the  happy  minutes  flew, 

Till  beauty  mounted  into  his  brain 
And  on  the  finger  which  outvied 

His  art  he  placed  the  ring  that  's  there, 
Still  by  fancy's  eye  descried, 

In  token  of  a  marriage  rare : 
For  him  on  earth,  his  art's  despair, 
For  him  in  heaven,  his  soul's  fit  bride, 


JAMES  LEE'S  WIFE.  395 

III. 

Little  girl  with  the  poor  coarse  hand 

I  turned  from  to  a  cold  clay  cast — 
I  have  my  lesson,  understand 

The  worth  of  flesh  and  blood  at  last! 
Nothing  hut  beauty  in  a  Hand? 

Because  he  could  not  change  the  hue, 

Mend  the  lines  and  make  them  true 
To  this  which  met  his  soul's  demand, — 

Would  Da  Vinci  turn  from  you? 
I  hear  him  laugh  my  woes  to  scorn — 
"The  fool  forsooth  is  all  forlorn 
Because  the  beauty,  she  thinks  best, 
Lived  long  ago  or  was  never  born, — 
Because  no  beauty  bears  the  test 
In  this  rough  peasant  Hand !     Confessed 
'Art  is  null  and  study  void!' 
So  sayest  thou?     So  said  not  I, 
Who  threw  the  faulty  pencil  by, 
And  years  instead  of  hours  employed, 
Learning  the  veritable  use 
Of  flesh  and  bone  and  nerve  beneath 
Lines  and  hue  of  the  outer  sheath, 
If  haply  I  might  reproduce 
One  motive  of  the  mechanism, 
Flesh  and  bone  and  nerve  that  make 
The  poorest  coarsest  human  hand 
An  object  worthy  to  be  scanned 
A  whole  life  long  for  their  sole  sake. 
Shall  earth  and  the  cramped  moment-space 
Yield  the  heavenly  crowning  grace? 
Now  the  parts  and  then  the  whole! 
Who  art  thou,  with  stinted  soul 
And  stunted  body,  thus  to  cry, 


396  JAMES  LEE'S  WIFE. 

'I  love,— shall  that  be  life's  strait  dole? 
I  must  live  beloved  or  die!' 
This  peasant  hand  that  spins  the  wool 
And  bakes  the  bread,  why  lives  it  on, 
Poor  and  coarse  with  beauty  gone, — 
"What  use  survives  the  beauty?     Fool!" 

Go,  little  girl  with  the  poor  coarse  hand ! 
I  have  my  lesson,  shall  understand. 


THE   END. 


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Boys  reading  the  history  of  the  Punic  Wars  have  seldom  a  keen 
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tion of  a  most  interesting  period  of  history,  but  is  a  tale  of  ex- 
citing adventure  sure  to  secure  the  interest  of  the  reader. 

"  Well  constructed  and  vividly  told.  From  first  to  last  nothing  stays  the 
interest  of  the  narrative.  It  bears  us  along  as  on  a  Jstream  whose  current 
varies  in  direction,  but  never  loses  its  force."— Saturday  Review. 

In  Freedom's  Cause  :  A  Story  of  Wallace  and  Bruce.  ByG.  A. 
HENTY.  With  full-page  Illustrations  by  GORDON  BROWNE. 
12mo,  cloth,  price  $1.00. 

In  this  story  the  author  relates  the  stirring  tale  of  the  Scottish 
War  of  Independence.  The  extraordinary  valor  and  personal 
prowess  of  Wallace  and  Bruce  rival  the  deeds  of  the  mythical 
heroes  of  chivalry,  and  indeed  at  one  time  Wallace  was  ranked 
with  these  legendary  personages.  The  researches  of  modern 
historians  have  shown,  however,  that  he  was  a  living,  breathing 
man — and  a  valiant  champion.  The  hero  of  the  tale  fought  under 
both  Wallace  and  Bruce,  and  while  the  strictest  historical  accuracy 
has  been  maintained  with  respect  to  public  events,  the  work  is 
full  of  "hairbreadth  'scapes"  and  wild  adventure. 

"  It  is  written  in  the  author's  best  style.  Pull  of  the  wildest  and  most  re- 
markable achievements,  it  is  a  tale  of  great  interest,  which  a  boy,  once  he  has 
begun  it,  wUl  not  willingly  put  on  one  side."— The  Schoolmaster. 


A.  L.  BURT'S  PUBLICATIONS.  8 

With  Lee  in  Virginia:  A  Story  of  the  American  Civil  War.  By 
G.  A.  HENTY.  With  full-page  Illustrations  by  GORDON 
BROWNE.  12mo,  cloth,  price  $1.00. 

The  story  of  a  young  Virginian  planter,  who,  after  bravely 
proving  his  sympathy  with  the  slaves  of  brutal  masters,  serves 
with  no  less  courage  and  enthusiasm  under  Lee  and  Jackson 
through  the  most  exciting  events  of  the  struggle.  He  has  many 
hairbreadth  escapes,  isseve-al  times  wounded  and  twice  taken 
prisoner;  but  his  courage  and  readiness  and,  in  two  cases,  the 
devotion  of  a  black  servant  and  of  a  runaway  slave  whom  he  had 
assisted,  bring  him  safely  through  all  difficulties. 

"  One  of  the  best  stories  for  lads  which  Mr.  Henty  has  yet  written.  The 
picture  is  full  of  life  and  color,  and  the  stirring  and  romantic  incidents  are 
skillfully  blended  with  the  personal  interest  and  charm  of  the  story." — 
Standard. 

By  England's  Aid ;  or,  The  Freeing  of  the  Netherlands  (1585- 
1604).     By  Q.   A.    HENTY.     With   full-page   Illustrations  by 
ALFRED  PEA.RSE,  and  Maps.     12mo,  cloth,  price  $1.00. 
The  story  of  two  English  lads  who  go  to  Holland  as  pages  in 
the  service  of  one  of  "  the  fighting  Veres."     After  many  adven- 
tures by  sea  and  land,  one  of  the  lads  finds  himself  on  board  a 
Spanish  ship  at  the  time  of  the  defeat  of  the  Armada,  and  escapes 
only  to  fall  into  the  hands  of  the  Corsairs.     He  is  successful  in 
getting  back  to  Spain  under  the  protection  of  a  wealthy  merchant, 
and  regains  his  native  country  after  the  capture  of  Cadiz. 

"  It  is  an  admirable  book  for  youngsters.  It  overflows  with  stirring  inci- 
dent and  exciting  adventure,  and  the  color  of  the  era  and  of  the  scene  are 
finely  reproduced.  The  illustrations  add  to  its  attractiveness." — Boston 
Gazette. 

By  Right  of  Conquest ;  or,  With  Cortez  in  Mexico.      By  G.  A. 

HENTY.     With  full-page  Illustrations  by  W.  S.  STACEY,  and 

Two  Maps.     12rno,  cloth,  price  $1.50. 

The  conquest  of  Mexico  by  a  small  band  of  resolute  men  under 
the  magnificent  leadership  of  Cortez  is  always  rightly  ranked 
among  the  most  romantic  and  daring  exploits  in  history.  With 
this  as  the  groundwork  of  his  story  Mr.  Henty  has  interwoven  the 
adventures  of  an  English  youth,  Roger  Hawkshaw,  the  sole  sur- 
vivor of  the  good  ship  Swan,  which  had  sailed  from  a  Devon  port 
to  challenge  the  mercantile  supremacy  of  the  Spaniards  in  the 
New  World.  He  is  beset  by  many  perils  among  the  natives,  but 
is  saved  by  his  own  judgment  and  strength,  and  by  the  devotion 
of  an  Aztec  princes^.  At  last  by  a  ruse  he  obtains  the  protection 
of  the  Spaniards,  and  after  the  fall  of  Mexico  h^  succeeds  in  re- 
gaining his  native  shore,  with  a  fortune  and  a  charming  Aztec 
bride. 

14 '  By  Right  of  Conquest '  is  the  nearest  approach  to  a  perfectly  successful 
historical  tale  that  Mr.  Henty  has  yet  published."— Academy. 


A.  L.  BURT'S  PUBLICATIONS. 


In  the  Reign  of  Terror  :  The  Adventures  of  a  Westminster  Boy. 

By  G.  A.  HENTY.      With  full-page  Illustrations  by  J.  SCHON- 

BERG.     12mo,  cloth,  price  $1.00. 

Harry  Sandwith,  a  Westminster  boy,  becomes  a  resident  at  the 
chateau  of  a  French  marquis,  and  aft<  r  various  adventures  accom- 
panies the  family  to  Paris  at  the  crisis  of  the  Revolution.  Im- 
prisonment and  death  reduce  their  number,  and  the  hero  finds 
himself  beset  by  perils  with  the  three  young  daughters  of  the 
Louse  iu  his  charge.  After  hairbreadth  escapes  they  reach  Nan- 
tes.  There  the  girls  are  condemned  to  death  in  the  coffin-hhips, 
but  are  saved  by  the  unfailing  courage  of  their  boy  protector. 

"  Harry  Sandwith,  the  Westminster  boy,  may  fairly  be  said  to  beat  Mr. 
Henty's  record.  His  adventures  will  delight  boys  by  the  audacity  and  peril 
they  depict.  .  .  .  The  story  is  one  of  Mr.  Henty's  best."—  Saturday 
Review. 

With  Wolfe  in  Canada  ;  or,  The  Winning  of  a  Continent.  By 
G.  A.  HENTY.  With  full-page  Illustrations  by  GORDON 
BROWNE.  12mo,  cloth,  price  $1.00. 

In  the  present  volume  Mr.  Henty  gives  an  account  of  the  strug- 
gle between  Britain  and  France  for  supremacy  in  the  North 
American  continent.  On  the  issue  of  this  war  depended  not  only 
the  destinies  of  North  America,  but  to  a  large  extent  those  of  the 
mother  countries  themselves.  The  fall  of  Quebec  decided  that 
the  Anglo-Saxon  race  should  predominate  iu  the  New  World; 
that  Britain,  and  not  France,  should  take  the  lead  among  the 
nations  of  Europe;  and  that  English  and  American  commerce,  the 
English  language,  and  English  literature,  should  spread  right 
round  the  globe, 

"  It  is  not  o»ly  a  lesson  in  history  as  instructively  as  it  is  graphically  told, 
but  also  a  deeply  interesting  and  often  thrilling  tale  of  adventure  and  peril  by 
flood  and  field."— Illustrated  London  News. 

True  to  the  Old  Flag:  A  Tale  of  the  American  War  of  Inde- 
pendence.    By  G.  A.  HENTY.     With  full-page  Illustrations  by 
GORDON  BROWNE.    12mo,  cloth,  price  $1.00. 
In  this  story  the  author  has  gone  to  the  accounts  of  officers  who 
took  part  in  the  conflict,  and  lads  will  find  that  in  no  war  in  which 
American  and  British  soldiers  have  been  engaged  did  they  behave 
with  greater  courage  and  good  conduct.     The  historical  portion  of 
the  book  being  accompanied  with  numerous  thrilling  adventures 
with  the  redskins  on  the  shores  of  Lake  Huron,  a  story  of  exciting 
interest  is  interwoven  with   the  general   narrative   and   carried 
through  the  book. 

"  Does  justice  to  the  pluck  and  determination  of  the  British  soldiers  during 
the  unfortunate  struggle  against  American  emancipation.  The  son  of  an 
American  loyalist,  who  remains  true  to  our  flag,  falls  among  the  hostile  red- 
Bkins  in  that  very  Huron  country  which  has  been  endeared  to  us  by  the  ex- 
ploits of  Hawkeye  and  Chingachgook,'1— The  Times. 


A.  L.  BURT'S  PUBLICATIONS. 


The  Lion  of  St.  Mark :  A  Tale   of   Venice   in   the   Fourteenth 
Century.     By  G.  A.  HENTY.     With  full-page  Illustrations  by 
GORDON  BROWNE.     12nio,  cloth,  price  $1.00. 
A  story  of  Venice  at  a  period  when  her  strength  and  splendor 
were  put  to  the  severest  tests.     The  hero  displays  a  fine  sense  and 
manliness  which  carry  him  safely  through  an  atmosphere  of  in- 
trigue, crime,  and  bloodshed.     He  contributes  largely  to  the  vic- 
tories of  the  Venetians  at  Porto  d'Anzo  and  Chioggia,  and  finally 
wins  the  band  of  the  daughter  of  one  of  the  chief  men  of  Venice. 

"  Every  boy  should  read  '  The  Lion  of  St.  Mark.'  Mr.  Henry  has  never  pro- 
duced a  story  more  delightful,  more  wholesome,  or  more  vivacious." — Satur- 
day Review. 

A  Final  Reckoning:  A  Tale  of  Bush  Life  in  Australia.  ByG.  A. 

HENTY.     With   full-page   Illustrations  by   W.    B.    WOLLEN. 

ISino,  cloth,  price  $1.00, 

The  hero,  a  young  English  lad.  after  rather  a  stormy  boyhood, 
emigrates  to  Australia,  and  gets  employment  as  an  officer  in  the 
mounted  police.  A  few  years  of  active  work  on  the  frontier, 
where  he  has  many  a  brush  with  both  natives  and  bushrangers, 
gain  him  promotion  to  a  captaincy,  and  he  eventually  settles 
down  to  the  peaceful  life  of  a  squatter. 

"  Mr.  Henty  has  never  published  a  more  readable,  a  more  carefully  con- 
structed, or  a  better  written  story  than  this.'1 — Spectator. 

Under  Drake's  Flag  :  A  Tale  of  the  Spanish  Main.     By  G.  A. 

HENTY.     With  full-page  Illustrations  by   GORDON  BROWNE. 

12mo,  cloth,  price  $1.00. 

A  story  of  the  days  when  England  and  Spain  struggled  for  the 
supremacy  of  the  sea.  The  heroes  sail  as  lads  with  Drake  in  the 
Pacific  expedition,  and  in  his  great  voyage  of  circumnavigation. 
The  historical  portion  of  the  story  is  absolutely  to  be  relied  upon, 
but  this  will  perhaps  be  less  attractive  than  the  great  variety  of 
exciting  adventure  through  which  the  young  heroes  pass  in  the 
course  of  their  voyages. 

"•  A  book  of  adventure,  where  the  hero  meets  with  experience  enough,  one 
would  think,  to  turn  his  hair  gray."— Harper's  Monthly  Magazine. 

By  Sheer  Pluck  :  A  Tale  of  the  Ashanti  War.     By  G.  A.  HENTY. 

With  full- page    Illustrations    by  GORDON    BROWNE.     12mo, 

cloth,  price  $1.00. 

The  author  has  woven,  in  a  tale  of  thrilling  interest,  all  the  de- 
tails of  the  Ashanti  campaign,  of  which  he  was  himself  a  witness. 
His  hero,  after  many  exciting  adventure?  in  the  interior,  is  de- 
tained a  prisoner  by  the  king  just  before  the  outbreak  of  the  war, 
but  escapes,  and  accompanies  the  English  expedit  on  on  their 
march  to  Coornassie. 

"  Mr.  Henty  keeps  up  his  reputation  as  a  writer  of  boys'  stories.  '  By  Sheer 
Pluck '  will  be  eagerly  read."— Athenaeum. 


6  A.  L.  BURTS  PUBLICATIONS. 

By  Pike  and  Dyke  :  A  Tale  of  the  Rise  of  the  Dutch  Republic. 
By  G.  A.  HENTY.     With  full-page  Illustrations  by  MAYNARD 
BROWN,  and  4  Maps.     IStuo,  cloth,  price  $1.00. 
In  this  story  Mr.  Henty  traces  the  adventures  and  brave  deeds 
of  an  English  boy  in  the  household  of  the  ablest  man  of  his  age — 
William  the  Silent.     Edward  Martin,  the  son  of  an  English  sea- 
captain,  enters  the  service  of  the  Prince  as  a  volunteer,  and  is  em- 
ployed by  him  in  many  dangerous  and  responsible  missions,  in  the 
discharge  of  which  he  passes  through  the  great  siege.s  of  the  time. 
He  u  timately  settles  down  as  Sir  Edward  Martin. 

"  Boys  with  a  turn  for  historical  research  will  be  enchanted  with  the  hook, 
while  the  rest  who  only  care  for  ad  venture  .will  be  students  in  spite  of  them- 
selves."— St.  James'  Gazette. 

St.  George  for  England  :  A  Tale  of  Cressy  and  Poitiers.  By 
G.  A.  HENTY.  With  full-page  Illustrations  by  GORDON 
BROWNS.  12mo,  cloth,  price  $1  00. 

No  portion  of  English  history  is  more  crowded  with  great  events 
than  that  of  the  reign  of  Edward  III.  Cressy  and  Poitiers;  the 
destruction  of  the  Spanish,  fleet;  the  plague  of  the  Black  Death; 
tte  Jacquerie  rising;  these  are  treated  by  the  author  in  "  St. 
George  for  England."  The  hero  of  the  story,  although  of  good 
family,  begins  life  as  a  London  apprentice,  but  after  countless  ad. 
ventures  and  perils  becomes  by  valor  and  good  conduct  the  squire, 
and  at  last  the  trusted  friend  of  the  Black  Prince. 

"Mr.  Henty  has  developed  for  himself  a  type  of  historical  novel  for  boy_s 
which  bids  fair  to  supplement,  on  their  behalf,  the  historical  labors  of  Sir 
Walter  Scott  in  the  land  of  fiction."1— The  Standard. 

Captain's  Kidd's  Gold:  The  True  Story  of  an  Adventurous  Sailor 
Boy.  By  JAMES  FRANKLIN  FITTS.  12rao,  clot  i,  price  $1.00. 
There  is  something  fascinating  to  the  average  youth  in  the  very 
idea  of  buried  treasure.  A  vision  arises  before  his  eyes  of  swarthy 
Portuguese  and  Spanish  rascals,  with  black  beards  and  gleaming 
eyes — sinister-looking  fellows  who  once  on  a  time  haunted  the 
Spanish  Main,  sneaking  out  from  some  hidden  creek  in  their  long, 
low  schooner,  of  picaroon ish  rake  and  sheer,  to  attack  an  unsus- 
pecting trading  craft.  There  were  many  famous  sea  rovers  in 
their  day,  but  none  more  celebrated  than  Capt.  Kidd.  Perhaps 
the  most  fascinating  tale  of  all  is  Mr.  Fitts'  true  story  of  an  adven 
turous  American  boy,  who  receives  from  his  dying  father  an 
ancient  bit  of  vellum,  which  the  latter  obtained  in  a  curious  way. 
The  document  bears  obscure  directions  purporting  to  locate  a  cer- 
tain island  in  the  Bahama  group,  and  a  considerable  treasure 
buried  there  by  two  of  Kidd's  crew.  The  hero  of  this  book, 
Paul  Jones  Garry,  is  an  ambitious,  persevering  lad,  of  salt-water 
New  England  ancestry,  and  his  efforts  to  reach  the  island  and 
secure  the  money  form  one  of  the  most  absorbing  tales  for  our 
youth  that  has  come  from  the  press. 


A.  L.  BURT'S  PUBLICATIONS. 


Captain  Bayley's  Heir:  A  Tale  of  the  Gold  Fields  of  California. 

By   G.   A.    HEXTY.     With   full-page   Illustrations   by  H.   M. 

PAGET.     12iuo,  cloth,  price  $1.00. 

A  frank,  manly  lad  and  his  cousin  are  rivals  in  theheirshipof  a 
co  siderable  property.  The  former  frills  into  a  trap  laid  by  the 
latter,  and  while  under  a  false  accusation  of  theft  foolishly  leaves 
England  for  America.  He  works  his  passage  before  the  mast, 
joins  a  small  band  of  hunters,  crosses  a  tract  of  country  infested 
with  Indians  to  the  Californian  gold  diggings,  and  is  successful 
both  as  digger  and  trader. 

"Mr.  Henty  is  careful  to  mingle  instruction  with  entertainment;  and  the 
humorous  touches,  especially  in  the  sketch  of  John  Holl,  the  Westminster 
dustman,  Dickens  himself  could  hardly  have  excelled."— Christian  Leader. 

For  Name  and  Fame  ;  or,  Through  Afghan  Passes.      By  G.  A. 

HENTY.     With  full  page   Illustrations  by  GORDON  BROWNE. 

12mo,  cloth,  price  $1.00. 

An  interesting  story  of  the  last  war  in  Afghanistan.  The  hero, 
after  being  wrecked  and  going  through  many  stirring  adventures 
among  the  Malays,  finds  his  way  to  Calcutta  and  enlists  in  a  regi- 
ment proceeding  to  join  the  army  at  the  Afghan  passes.  He  ac- 
companies the  force  nnder  General  Roberts  to  the  Peiwar  Kotal, 
is  wounded,  taken  prisoner,  carried  to  Cabul,  whence  he  is  trans- 
ferred to  Candahar,  and  takes  part  in  the  final  defeat  of  the  army 
of  Ayoub  Khan. 

"The  best  feature  of  the  book— apart  from  the  interest  of  its  scenes  of  ad- 
venture—is its  honest  effort  to  do  justice  to  the  patriotism  of  the  Afghan 
people." — Daily  Sews. 

Captured  by  Apes  :  The  Wonderful  Adventures  of  a  Young 
Animal  Trainer.  By  HARRY  PRENTICE.  12mo,  cloth,  $1.00. 
The  scene  of  this  tale  is  laid  on  an  island  in  the  Malay  Archi- 
pelago. Philip  Garland,  a  young  animal  collector  and  trainer,  of 
New  York,  sets  sail  for  Eastern  seas  in  quest  of  a  new  stock  of 
living  curiosities.  The  vessel  is  wrecked  off  the  coast  of  Borneo 
and  young  Garland,  the  sole  survivor  of  the  disaster,  is  cast  ashore 
on  a  small  island,  and  captured  by  the  apes  that  overrun  the 
place.  The  lad  discovers  that  the  ruling  spirit  of  the  monkey 
tribe  is  a  gigantic  and  vicious  baboon,  whom  he  identifies  as 
Goliah,  an  animal  at  one  time  in  his  possession  and  with  whose 
instruction  he  had  been  especially  diligent.  The  brute  recognizes 
'him,  and  with  a  kind  of  malignant  satisfaction  puts  his  former 
master  through  the  same  course  of  training  he  had  himself  ex- 
perienced with  a  faithfulness  of  detail  which  shows  how  astonish- 
ing is  monkey  recollection.  Very  novel  indeed  is  the  way  by 
which  the  young  man  escapes  death.  Mr.  Prentice  has  certainly 
worked  a  new  vein  on  juvenile  fiction,  and  the  ability  with  which 
he  handles  a  difficult  subject  stamps  him  as  a  writer  of  undoubted 
skill. 


R  A.   L.  BURT'S  PUBLICATIONS. 

The  Bravest  of  the  Brave  ;  or,  With  Peterborough    in  Spain. 

By   G.    A.    HENTY.     With   full-page   Illustrations   by   H.    M. 

PAGET.     12m  >,  cloth,  price  $1.00. 

There  are  few  great  leaders  whose  lives  and  actions  have  so 
completely  fallen  into  oblivion  as  those  of  the  Earl  of  Peter- 
borough. This  is  largely  due  to  the  fact  that  they  were  over- 
shadowed by  the  glory  and  successes  of  Marlborough.  His  career 
as  general  extended  over  little  more  than  a  year,  and  yet,  in  that 
time,  he  showed  a  genius  for  warfare  which  has  never  been  sur- 
passed. 

"  Mr.  Henty  never  loses  sight  of  the  moral  purpose  of  his  work— to  enforce 
the  doctrine  of  courage  and  truth.  Lads  will  read  •  The  Bravest  of  the  Brave  ' 
•with  pleasure  and  profit;  of  that  we  are  quite  sure."— Daily  Telegraph. 

The  Cat  of  Bubastes  :  A  Story  of  Ancient  Egypt.  By  G.  A. 
HENTY.  With  full  page  Illustrations.  12mo,  cloth,  price  $1.00 
A  story  which  will  give  young  readers  an  unsurpassed  insight 
into  the  customs  of  the  Egyptian  people.  Amuba,  a  prince  of  the 
Rebu  nation,  is  carried  with  his  charioteer  Jethro  into  slavery. 
They  become  inmates  of  the  house  of  Auieres,  the  Egyptian  high- 
p:iest,  and  are  happy  in  his  service  until  the  priest's  son  acci- 
dentally kills  the  sacred  cat  of  Bubastes.  In  an  outburst  of  popular 
fury  Ameres  is  killed,  and  it  rests  with  Jethro  and  Amuba  to 
secure  the  escape  of  the  high-priest's  son  and  daughter. 

"  The  story,  from  the  critical  moment  of  the  killing  of  the  sacred  cat  to  the 
perilous  exodus  into  Asia  with  which  it  closes,  is  very  skillfully  constructed 
and  full  of  exciting  adventures.  It  is  admirably  illustrated."— Saturday 
Review. 

With  Washington  at  Monmouth  :  A  Story  of  Three  Phila- 
delphia Boys.  By  JAMES  OTIS.  12mo,  cloth,  price  $1.00. 
Three  Philadelphia  boys,  Seth  Graydon  "whose  mother  con- 
ducted a  boarding-house  which  was  patronized  by  the  British 
officers;"  Enoch  Ball,  "son  of  that  Mrs.  Ball  whose  dancing 
school  was  situated  on  Letitia  Street,"  and  little  Jacob,  son  of 
•'  Chris,  the  Baker,"  serve  as  the  principal  characters.  The 
story  is  laid  during  the  winter  when  Lord  Howe  held  possession 
of  the  city,  and  the  lads  aid  the  cause  by  assisting  the  American 
spies  who  make  regular  and  frequent  visits  from  Valley  Forge. 
One  reads  here  of  home-life  in  the  captive  city  when  bread  was 
scarce  among  the  people  of  the  lower  classes,  and  a  reckless  prodi- 
gality shown  by  the  British  officers,  who  passed  the  winter  in 
feasting  and  merry-making  while  the  members  of  the  patriot  army 
but  a  few  miles  away  were  suffering  from  both  cold  and  hunger. 
The  story  abounds  with  pictures  of  Colonial  life  skillfully 
drawn,  and  the  glimpses  of  Washington's  soldiers  which  are  given 
show  that  the  work  has  not  been  hastily  done,  or  without  con- 
siderable study. 


A.  L.  BURT'S  PUBLICATIONS.  9 

For  the  Temple :  A  Tale  of  the  Fall  of  Jerusalem.     By  G.  A. 

HENTY.  With  full-page  Illustrations  by  S.  J.  SOLOMON.  12mo, 

cloth,  price  $1.00. 

Mr.  Henty  here  weaves  into  the  record  of  Josephus  an  admirable 
and  attractive  story.  The  troubles  in  the  district  of  Tiberias,  the 
march  of  the  legions,  the  sieges  of  Jotapata,  of  Gamala,  and  of 
Jerusalem,  form  the  impressive  and  carefully  studied  historic 
setting  to  the  figure  of  the  lad  who  passes  from  the  vineyard  to 
the  service  of  Josephus,  becomes  the  leader  of  a  guerrilla  band  of 
patriots,  fights  bravely  for  the  Temple,  and  after  a  brief  term  of 
slavery  at  Alexandria,  returns  to  his  Galilean  home  with  the  favor 
of  Titus. 

"Mr.  Henty's  graphic  prose  pictures  of  the  hopeless  Jewish  resistance  to 
Roman  sway  add  another  leaf  to  his  record  of  the  famous  wars  of  the  world." 
— Graphic. 

Facing  Death  ;  or,  The  Hero  of  the  Vaughan  Pit.     A  Tale  of 
the  Coal  Mines.     By  G.   A.   HENTY.     With  full-page  Illustra- 
tions by  GORDON  BROWNE.     12mo,  cloth,  price  $1.00. 
"Facing  Death"  is  a  story  with  a  purpose.     It  is  intended  to 
show  that  a  lad  who  makes  up  his  mind  firmly  and  resolutely  that 
he  will  rise  in  life,  and  who  is  prepared  to  face  toil  and  ridicule 
and  hardship  to  carry  out  his  determination,  is  sure  to  succeed. 
The  hero  of  the  story  is  a  typical    British   boy,  dogged,  earnest, 
generous,  and  though  "  shamefaced"  to  a  degree,  is  ready  to  face 
death  in  the  discharge  of  duty. 

"  The  tale  is  well  written  and  well  illustrated,  and  there  is  much  reality  in 
the  characters.  If  any  father,  clergyman,  or  schoolmaster  is  on  the  lookout 
for  a  good  book  to  give  as  a  present  to  a  boy  who  is  worth  his  salt,  this  is  the 
book  we  would  recommend."— Standard. 

Tom  Temple's  Career.    By   HORATIO    ALGER.     12mo,   cloth, 

price  $1.00. 

Tom  Temple,  a  bright,  self-reliant  lad,  by  the  death  of  his 
father  becomes  a  boarder  at  the  home  of  Nathan  Middleton,  a 
penurious  insurance  agent.  Though  well  paid  for  keeping  the 
boy,  Nathan  and  his  wife  endeavor  to  bring  Master  Tom  in  line 
with  their  parsimonious  habits.  The  lad  ingeniously  evades  their 
efforts  and  revolutionizes  the  household.  As  Tom  is  heir  to 
$40,000,  he  is  regarded  as  a  person  of  some  importance  until  by 
an  unfortunate  combination  of  circumstances  his  fortune  shrinks 
to  a  few  hundreds.  He  leaves  Plympton  village  to  seek  work  in 
New  York,  whence  he  undertakes  an  important  mission  to  Cali- 
fornia, around  which  center  the  most  exciting  incidents  of  his 
young  career.  Some  of  his  adventures  in  the  far  west  are  so 
startling  that  the  reader  will  scarcely  close  the  book  until  the  last 
page  shall  have  been  reached.  The  tale  is  written  in  Mr.  Alger's 
most  fascinating  style,  and  is  bound  to  please  the  very  large  class 
of  boys  who  regard  this  popular  author  as  a  prime  favorite. 


10  A.  L.  BURT'S  PUBLICATIONS. 

Maori  and  Settler:  A  Story  of  the  New  Zealand  War.  By 
G.  A.  HENTY.  With  full-page  Illustrations  by  ALFRED  PEARSE. 
12mo,  cloth,  price  $1.00. 

The  Kenshaws  emigrate  to  New  Zealand  during  the  period  of 
the  war  with  the  natives.  Wilfrid,  a  strong,  self-reliant,  coura- 
geous lad,  is  the  mainstay  of  the  household.  He  has  for  his  friend 
Mr.  Atherton,  a  botanist  and  naturalist  of  herculean  strength  and 
unfailing  nerve  and  humor.  In  the  ad  ventures  among  the  Maoris, 
there  are  many  breathless  moments  in  which  the  odds  seem  hope- 
lessly against  the  party,  but  they  succeed  in  establishing  them- 
selves happily  in  one  of  the  pleasant  New  Zealand  valleys. 

"Brimful  of  adventure,  of  humorous  and  interesting  conversation,  and 
vivid  pictures  of  colonial  life."— Schoolmaster. 

Julian  Mortimer):  A  Brave  Boy's  Struggle  for  Home  and  Fortune. 

By  HARRY  CASTLEMON.     12mo,  cloth,  price  $1.00. 

Here  is  a  story  that  will  warm  every  boy's  heart.  There  is 
mystery  enough  to  keep  any  lad's  imagination  wound  up  to  the 
highest  pitch.  The  scene  of  the  story  lies  west  of  the  Mississippi 
River,  in  the  days  when  emigrants  made  their  perilous  way  across 
the  great  plains  to  the  land  of  gold.  One  of  the  startling  features 
of  the  book  is  the  attack  upon  the  wagon  train  by  a  large  party  of 
Indians.  Our  hero  is  a  lad  of  uncommon  nerve  and  pluck,  a  brave 
young  American  in  every  sense  of  the  word.  He  enlists  and  holds 
the  reader's  sympathy  from  the  outset.  Surrounded  by  an  un- 
known and  constant  peril,  and  assisted  by  the  unswerving  fidelity 
of  a  stalwart  trapper,  a  real  rough  diamond,  our  hero  achieves  the 
most  happy  results.  Harry  Castlemon  has  written  many  enter- 
taining stories  for  boys,  and  it  would  seem  almost  superfluous  to 
say  anything  in  his  praise,  for  the  youth  of  America  regard  him 
as  a  favorite  author. 

"Carrots:"  Just  a  Little  Boy.     By  MRS.  MOLESWORTH.     With 
Illustrations  by  WALTER  CRANE.     12mo,  cloth,  price  75  cents. 

"  One  of  the  cleverest  and  most  pleasing  stories  it  has  been  our  good  for- 
tune to  meet  with  for  some  time.  Carrots  and  his  sister  are  delightful  little 
beings,  whom  to  read  about  is  at  once  to  become  very  fond  of." — Examiner. 

"A  genuine  children's  book;  we've  seen  'em  seize  it,  and  read  it  greedily. 
Children  are  first-rate  critics,  and  thoroughly  appreciate  Walter  Crane's 
illustrations.  "—Punch. 

Mopsa  the   Fairy.      By  JEAN  INGELOW.      With  Eight  page 
Illustrations.     12mo,  cloth,  price  75  cents. 

"  Mrs.  Ingelow  is,  to  our  mind,  the  most  charming  of  all  living  writers  for 
children,  and  '  Mopsa'  alone  ought  to  give  her  a  kind  of  pre-emptive  right  to 
the  love  and  gratitude  of  our  young  folks.  It  requires  genius  to  conceive  a 
purely  imaginary  work  which  must  of  necessity  deal  with  the  supernatural, 
without  running  into  a  mere  riot  of  fantastic  absurdity;  but  genius  Miss  In- 
gelow has  and  the  story  of  '  Jack  '  is  as  careless  and  joyous,  but  as  delicate, 
as  a  picture  of  childhood."— Eclectic. 


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